


Yesterday's Child

by HopeofDawn, Thefractured



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Animal Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Drunken Shenanigans, Enthusiastic Consent, F/M, Gay Sex, Light Dom/sub, Lingerie, M/M, Magic, Medical Trauma, Multi, Oral Sex, Strength Kink, Swordfighting, Threesome - F/M/M, Threesome - M/M/M, Time Travel, Vodka, Witchers Are Kinky Bastards, animal skinning and butchery, canon child harm, witchers everywhere
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2018-09-24 10:30:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 76,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9718844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeofDawn/pseuds/HopeofDawn, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thefractured/pseuds/Thefractured
Summary: Ciri stopped short as she saw the newest notice, freshly written and tacked boldly into the center of the board.‘LET IT BE KNOWNThat due to his various and many crimes against decency, the natural order, and good taste, the Witcher Almeric must no longer be allowed to torment his brethren with devilish enchanted undergarments. In order to ensure this, a reward in coin awaits the brave man who can relieve him of said braies, and send the accursed garment to a fiery demise. The witcher who can provide evidence of this deed shall be held in esteem by his brothers, his name hallowed forever.Edik of Breton[Addendum] Almeric is a vile seducer of upright witcherfolk--do not fall prey to his wiles!’





	1. Chapter 1

_Geralt would be so disappointed in me._

It had been three years since the last serious assassination attempt; seven since her official ascension to the throne. Emhyr -- it was still difficult to think of him as her father, even if time and familiarity had worn away a little of his intimidating imperial mien -- had been thorough, even before his abdication, in eliminating his enemies. Even now he kept his hand in, had ears and eyes in every corner of the empire. And Cirilla -- remembering the fate of her mother, the death of her grandmother and the sacking of Cintra -- had, in turn, not hesitated to channel a little of his ruthlessness as circumstances required.

As a result, she hadn’t needed to unweave any new plots as of late. She’d even agreed to an Imperial Progress through the Northern Kingdoms, in order to solidify old allegiances and negotiate new ones, perhaps even to see a few old friends. A stag hunt with a few local Kaedweni nobles had seemed a harmless thing, in comparison to the constant scheming and backbiting of court politics. Considering her own abilities, and the ever-watchful attendance of the Imperial Guard, what had she to fear? And the chance to wear leathers rather than imperial robes, to ride into the forest, to see the Blue Mountains in the distance and remember simpler times … it had been too tempting to pass up.

 _Geralt is going to kill me for this_ , she couldn’t help but think, even as the forktail’s shriek echoed in her ears. Her horse -- not her faithful Kelpie, but a lesser, albeit more imperial beast -- screamed, rearing as the female of the pair swooped low overhead, claws extended. Kicking free of the stirrups, Cirilla rolled off the mare’s back as it bolted. The entire party had dissolved instantly into chaos, horses and nobles both frantic to escape, guardsmen shouting and blundering into each other as they brandished sword and halberd at the circling draconids. _Or at least lecture me *again* about expecting the unexpected._ How could she have missed the signs? Forktails were not subtle about marking their territory. She should have seen, should have realized long before now that the stag they had come to hunt had already been pulled down by a nesting pair of the draconids, even if the overbred nobles that made up the rest of their hunting party had not.

The male landed, hissing as it laid about with razor teeth and claws. _Eggs in the nest, have to be, for this kind of aggression_. An entire squad of her Imperial Guard, hampered by armor far too heavy for this kind of fight, were knocked off their feet by a sweep of its barbed tail. Those that remained formed up around her, a testament to their training. “Protect the Empress!”

One of the nobles screamed, a gurgling, terrified sound, as he fell under the creature’s talons. The forktail didn’t bother to finish the kill; instead it swung around, wings mantled as crossbow quarrels flew past its muzzle, rebounding off of thick scales. _Aard_ , she couldn’t help but think. She could almost hear Vesemir’s voice, gravelly and rough, in her ear. _For forktails, use draconid oil and aard. Failing that, grapeshot bombs_. None of which she had.

“Retreat! Get the Empress out of here!” her guard captain shouted, even as the female forktail dove again, snatching up another of the local guardsmen in her claws. Blood rained down as he screamed, the wet crunching of his bones audible even over the din. Most of the nobles shrieked and ran, while a few of the braver members of the retinue managed to rally their personal guard. Some had landed blows of their own, opening up thin red lines in the male’s flanks. The wounds were far from crippling, however, and instead only served to infuriate the beast more. Screeching in fury, it charged, that deadly tail lashing outward, impaling men on either side.

Mingled irritation and shame forced her to action. Drawing her sword, Cirilla darted forward, ignoring the alarmed shouts of her guards. Her faithful Zireal wasn’t silver, but had killed far greater beasts. She just needed to get in range. One step, two, and she *reached*--

\--and blinked between one moment and the next, to appear right on the forktail’s flank. _Perfect_. She lunged, stabbing deep into vulnerable soft spot behind one foreleg. Zirael sliced through scales and sinewy muscle like butter, and the forktail’s enraged screech was bitten off as blood frothed its muzzle. It whipped around, but Cirilla was already moving. Diving low as that deadly tail swung, she came up next to the creature’s swivelling head. Seizing the opportunity, she turned, letting her arm flow loose into a series of slashing strikes. Once, then twice more, directly across the meat of the forktail’s neck, severing windpipe and arteries alike. She stepped between moments once again, the draconid frozen in the fraction of time before the mortal wounds could even begin to bleed--and with a heavy, double-handed blow, finished the creature off, the final strike coming down on the other side the neck, partially severing the spine.

There was no time to revel in her victory, as the forktail’s mate screamed in rage from above. Folding her wings, the beast dove with talons out, ignoring the flurry of crossbow bolts that rose to meet her. Behind, distantly, Cirilla heard shouts, frantic orders, but her focus had narrowed. She ran forward to meet the forktail’s stoop, pulling forth the magic within her to step again across time and space. Only this time, there was a rising prickle of magic ... from *behind* her.

She had only the barest fraction of a moment to think-- _of course. What better chance to kill an empress?_ \--and then the spell smashed into the forktail, into her, twisting her power from her grasp. Caught outside of time, Cirilla couldn’t even hear her own scream as the spell warped, feeding on her magic, twisting reality itself. It burned, an icy pain that cored through her, like tendon and sinew strung tighter and tighter until something *snapped*--

\--and she fell.

The world swung dizzyingly before her eyes, stars and dark shadowed forest giving her no chance to figure out up from down. The drop lasted only moments--then unforgiving stone slammed into ribs and shoulders and the back of her head, driving out what little breath remained. Darkness threatened to drag her under--she fought against unconsciousness desperately, mustering every scrap of willpower she had. She felt hollowed out, empty--but she had to stay awake, to *move* or the forktail would … wait.

Why couldn’t she hear anything?

The silence was eerie, devoid of screams and shrieks and the sounds of battle, broken only by the hollow sound of the wind. _Where are the trees?_ It was cold, wherever she was, the wind cutting through her hunting leathers. The biting chill helped clear her head a bit. It had been midsummer in Kaedwen; this place was cold, but not the killing kind-- _I must have jumped to another world. That last spell--who knows how far it threw me?_ At least she didn’t have to worry about imminent death-by-draconid, then. However, her current position was no less precarious--there were a great many worlds out there that were far from safe.

Cirilla sucked in a breath, and immediately regretted it as her ribs protested. Stifling a groan, she pushed herself up on one arm, shaking with the effort it took. The movement gave rise to a nauseating wash of pain, so intense she couldn’t for a moment determine where it was coming from. Broken leg? She paused, panting, head hanging low as she mustered her strength. Her fingers curled against the stone, weathered gray granite, finely fitted and mortared together. Had she landed in another elven tower?

Nearby, she heard the faintest breath of sound, the scuff of leather on stone. Her head came up, her free hand snapping out for Zirael’s hilt.

It was a boy. A normal human boy, no older than eight, if Ciri were any judge. He scrambled backwards, eyes wide. “I’m sorry,” she said hastily, letting go of the sword. “I mean you no harm. You startled me.”

The boy regarded her warily from well outside sword’s reach. Cirilla stayed where she was, doing her best to appear harmless and unthreatening. The last thing she needed right now was for the child to panic and run off to this world’s version of witch hunters.

“... are you a succubus?” the boy asked, in perfectly understandable, albeit thickly-accented, northern common. Ciri did a double-take. Of all the questions she had been expecting, *that* had not been one of them.

“What? No--I’m not a succubus. I’m just a regular person.”

“No you’re not,” the boy said stubbornly, crossing arms over his chest. “Regular people don’t fall out of the air.”

Which was a valid point, she had to admit. “Ok, I’m a little bit different than most people,” she told him, amused in spite of herself. What an odd little boy. Too bad his question didn’t narrow things down any -- succubi were nearly as common across the worlds she’d visited as humans. Or at least, they were part of almost every culture’s mythos. “But why ever would you think I’m a succubus?”

“‘Cause Master Badrick says they look like girls. And you’re a girl. And there was a big flash of light, and you fell out of the air,” the boy stated proudly, as if that constituted irrefutable proof. “Normal girls don’t do that.”

“Well, you’ve got me there,” Cirilla admitted. She pushed herself upward, gritting her teeth. There was a nearby wall, crenelations shouldering up against the night sky--she put her back to it, letting it prop her up as she tried to maneuver her uncooperative leg. “But I’m still not a succubus.” The boy was definitely no foundling -- he seemed well-fed enough, and his tunic and trousers, while patched and made of rough linen, were relatively clean. A servant’s child, perhaps? “What’s your name?” she asked, grimacing as she propped her broken leg in front of her. There was nothing nearby she could use for a splint, save her scabbard. Damn it.

“I’m--” the boy stopped short, and when she looked over, she found his gaze had fixed on her … waist? No, Vesemir’s medallion, still securely fastened to her belt.

“A wolf.” the boy breathed, taking a step backwards. “But … ”

The child had obviously recognized it as a witcher medallion. Cirilla had heard more than a few of the horror stories the peasantry liked to tell about witchers, and she’d seen firsthand what that fear and prejudice had done to Geralt, when the citizenry of Rivia had exploded into violence. “Hey, it’s all right,” she said, trying to reassure him. “It’s not what you think. I’m not going to hurt you.”

The boy hesitated--then darted for the stairs. He disappeared down them in a flash, and Cirilla could hear him calling out, the stone muffling the words.

“Wonderful.” She let her aching head thunk--gently--back against the stone. _Angry mob, here we come._ Perhaps if she was lucky, it would only be angry parents. Cirilla pulled Zirael closer to her side, ready to hand. This was not good. She still felt as wrung out as an old rag--she doubted she’d be able to teleport to safety even if she needed to. Even if she knew where safety was.

Voices began echoing back up the stairs, the boy’s higher-pitched, excited words tumbling over a second voice--the laconic baritone of an older man, accompanied by the thud of booted feet.

“--don’t know what you’re playing at, boy.” The voice rolled the consonants oddly, just as the boy had. “There’s no way anyone could get--” The man came into view as he climbed up the stairs, and what Ciri saw was not reassuring. Wearing reinforced leathers, the man was bearded, with shaggy hair tied back at the nape of his neck and carrying an unsheathed blade in a practiced grip that bespoke an easy kind of strength. There was still moonlight enough to see and nowhere to hide, even had she the opportunity. The man’s narrowed eyes swept the open space, then widened as they landed on her.

“See! I told you--a girl witcher! And she fell out of the sky!” the boy said triumphantly from the stairs, clambering up with more haste than grace.

“Stay back,” the man ordered him, his gaze never leaving Cirilla, sword tip steady. “Who are you? How did you get here?”

Cirilla sucked in a breath as the man advanced. For those eyes were all too familiar, even if the face was not--the eerie, slit-pupiled golden gaze of a witcher. And at the man’s neck, hanging over his leathers, was a medallion twin to her own. The School of the Wolf.

“How … who are you?” she said disbelievingly. A bounty hunter might have scooped up the medallion as a trophy, but no normal man had those eyes.

“Answer the question, woman,” the man said roughly, moving to put himself between her and the boy, like it was instinctive. Her fingers tightened over Zirael’s hilt, and that golden gaze caught the movement. “Who are you? And how exactly did you come by that medallion, thief?”

“I’m no thief!” Cirilla snapped, the accusation laying bare an old scar. _Vesemir_ … if she had only been faster, or stronger … Even now the memory of his death ached. “It was bequeathed to me.” In spirit, if not in words. After it was all over, after she and Geralt had gone after the last Crone, to put an end to that rank and boggy evil and recover what had been stolen, Geralt had given the medallion to her again, and told her to keep it close. She had, ever since.

The man snorted. “A liar as well as a thief. There’s no way you could have made it up here by ordinary means. Not in this castle. You a sorceress, thief? Or just working for one?” He around her, obviously scanning for any other betraying signs of magic, while always keeping her in the periphery of his sight.

Cirilla sighed. “I’m not a thief, nor a sorceress. What kind of magic could I possibly work that you couldn’t sense, anyway?” She nodded at his witcher medallion, with its snarling wolf’s head. “Besides, have you ever seen a thief dressed like this?” She gestured down at her leathers. She might not be wearing full court gear, but her leathers were still of the finest quality, far better than even most aristocrats could afford. A mastercrafted leather jerkin, reinforced with silvered chain, wyvern-hide trousers embroidered finely in gold and scarlet thread … her belt alone would feed an entire village for a year, for Melitele’s sake!

The man growled under his breath, but didn’t reply. “You stink of forktail, as well,” he said abruptly, staring narrowly at her.

“Yes, well, that does tend to happen when you kill one,” she snapped, lifting Zirael into the moonlight, just enough to illustrate the black blood, still wet, slicking the blade.

“Hunh.” The man inspected her a moment longer, then sheathed his own sword, sliding it into the scabbard on his back in one smooth motion. “Go get Master Sebastian, boy. And Jacek as well. It appears we have a mystery on our hands.”

The boy nodded, ducking back down the stairs without argument. The man considered her, arms crossed, and Cirilla sighed again. “No offense, but if we’re just going to stare at each other, could we do it somewhere warmer?” The pain from her leg was getting harder to ignore as the adrenaline from the fight wore off. She tried to adjust her seat slightly, only to bite back a gasp as the movement jarred her awkwardly turned foot.

“Perhaps. You’re going to have to give that up first, though.” The man nodded at her sword.

Cirilla’s fingers tightened reflexively around Zirael’s hilt. Then, hating the necessity of it, she reversed the blade and set it down, hilt pointing away from her. “Take it.”

The man took up the elvish blade, hefting it without ever looking away. Then he set it aside, out of her reach, and knelt down. “Let me see that leg. And if you’re thinking of some kind of trickery, a word of advice -- don’t.”

“Don’t worry, you’re safe. I’m all out of tricks at the moment,” Cirilla said dryly. As close as the man now was, she could see finely threaded scars -- they spiderwebbed one side of his neck and throat, starting just above a stubbled jawline and disappearing down into his leathers. A constellation of other scars marked his face as well; evidence of a life spent hunting the kinds of foes that wielded poison or acid, not swords. “What’s your name?”

“Almeric.” He tilted his head, just a slight turn to the side and down, a subtle and familiar gesture. Eskel had once said he could hear better, that way. Ciri held her breath reflexively as the -- witcher? -- studied her. “Broken,” he said at last.

Was it even possible for other worlds to have witchers? She’d never seen another world so similar to her own, but--what else could it be? Ciri let her breath out, wincing at the hitching flex of her ribcage. “Managed to deduce that much on my own.”

Almeric gave her a look that he might well have learned at Vesemir’s feet. “Fibula. Torn anterior retinaculum. Bruised costal cartilage.”

No, Almeric was definitely a witcher, or something so close as to make very little difference. Which… wasn't impossible, clearly. She’d assumed that the mutations were unique to her world, and couldn't be replicated elsewhere without a precise combinations of mutagens. She certainly hadn’t come across any people with abilities quite like the witchers of her plane, let alone ones that spoke a language she understood.

Or perhaps there was a simpler explanation. Witchers sometimes disappeared, never to be seen again. If one hadn’t died in some forgotten crypt, but rather been shipwrecked on foreign shores…. Could Almeric be one of those?  “What continent is this?” she asked.

Almeric didn't answer right away.  Instead he settled back on his heels in that easy crouch, and studied her.

Despite everything, Ciri couldn’t help the excitement that seemed to bubble up from within. How long had Almeric been here, concealed from the wider world? Geralt -- he’d been able to count his brothers on the fingers of one hand now for decades; had more stories of coming across slain witchers than living ones. She knew of only fifty three from all the schools combined that still travelled the empire; even accounting for the difficulty of tracking a witcher, there were probably fewer than a hundred left in all the known world. Unicorns were more common, nowadays. To find another witcher, alive and safe, it was… “Have you sent word to Kaer Morhen?” Ciri found herself blurting. Almeric’s expression barely twitched. “It’s safe now. Imperial protectorate. The walls have been rebuilt. And--”

“Must have missed the head wound,” said another voice. This one, too, bore that accent she couldn’t quite place. Ciri blinked, reached up to rub her eyes in disbelief at what she was seeing, then hesitated, reminded of the forktail gore that still coated her hands.

“Mn. This look like a concussion to you?” Almeric said flatly.

“If she hit the ground -- here, by the scuff and spatter marks -- from a height? Then very likely, yes.” The second man wore all black, was dark himself, even moreso than a Zerrikanian. But his eyes gleamed the same gold as Almeric’s, and he moved with the same liquid grace as he pushed himself off the crenulated wall stones behind the other witcher. “Good roll to break your fall, by the way. Couldn’t have asked a boy for better.”

“You’re still training new -- wait. The School of the Wolf... lives?” _Fold straight in and forward as you fall. No, keep your wrists tucked, they’re the easiest bones to break. Wrong. Closer; you want to be able to hold a sword tomorrow?_ Maybe she had hit her head, after all. Two -- and boys? Could there be a branch school somewhere, hidden away, that was still training new witchers? But if so, why were they still in hiding? News had to reach this place, if either of these witchers walked the Path at all. Perhaps she should not have spoken so freely.

The pair -- pair! -- of witchers exchanged glances. “Right about the mystery, though,” said the dark one, a little wryly.

Almeric blew out a breath. “Let’s take this inside. I’m going to give you a boost up--it’ll hurt. You ready?”

Shivering, Ciri nodded. Shifting to one side, Almeric put his shoulder beneath hers, trusting her to hold on, and boosted her upward. The resulting spike of nauseating agony from head and ribs and leg all at once blurred her vision, threatening to suck her under.

Almeric didn’t drag her off right away, thankfully. Instead he stood steady, a solid support. “You good?”

“Y-yes. I think.” She hated showing weakness in front of them, but there was no help for it. For all her power, she was no witcher, able to withstand injuries and drink down potions that would slay a dozen ordinary men. At least Almeric hadn’t tried to carry her.

“All right.” Taking Cirilla at her word, Almeric headed for the stairs, supporting most of her weight. Even so, it was an awkward, painful journey down the narrow, twisting stair. The dark witcher followed them down, and didn’t seem inclined to commentary. Which was just as well--each hop downward jarred her bruised ribs anew, and by the time they reached the bottom, she was sweating with the effort it took to stay on her feet, teeth clenched tight against the pain. Head swimming, she caught only fleeting impressions of faces as Almeric half-dragged her into a nearby room. Suddenly there was a fireplace, and a chair, and she sagged in relief even as Almeric lowered her ungently into it, too happy to finally be *warm* again to care.

“All right, time to answer questions,” Almeric said, stepping back. Cirilla forced herself to focus, taking the measure of their little group. One was obviously a mage of some kind; judging from the way his robes were discolored about the sleeves and hem, one that dabbled more than a little in alchemical experimentation. But the other new arrivals--she slowly pushed herself upright, hardly believing the evidence of her eyes. They were both men, one stocky, layered with compact muscle, while the other was leaner, with dark hair and a narrow, aquiline face--and like Almeric, they both had golden, slit-pupiled witcher eyes.

Her gaze swung in astonishment from one face to the next. *Four* witchers of the School of the Wolf, alive? It wasn’t possible. One or even two, perhaps, but surely Vesemir or Geralt would have known. Surely Geralt would have told her. Even if he didn’t trust the empire, he had to know she would keep his secrets.

“How did you find this place? What are you after, woman?” the lanky witcher asked, moving forward, scowling in suspicion. The movement separated him from his fellows, revealing that his right arm ended just above the elbow.

“I didn’t find anything,” she told him, trying not to stare. A witcher who’d suffered that kind of injury and still managed to survive had to be a rare thing indeed. “I landed here by accident, in the middle of a fight with a forktail -- I have no idea where I am.” This room seemed vaguely familiar, in that way that old castles often were, if old-fashioned in its appointments. But regardless of where she was, Cirilla knew she had to choose her words carefully. Far too many others had thought to use her power or her bloodline, or both, once they had discovered her heritage. And if these men knew they held the empress of all Nilfgaard--well, ransom might be the kindest outcome she could probably expect.

She needed to play for time. Time enough for her power to recover; then it wouldn’t matter what their intentions were, witchers or not -- no shackle or prison would be able to hold her. Of course, being able to actually walk would help some.

The one-armed witcher snorted. “You’re a bad liar, woman. You might at least *try* to make up something we would believe.”

“I’m not lying,” Ciri said calmly, refusing to be stung by the insult. A memory floated past, Geralt’s voice in her ear-- _Don’t believe everything Eskel tells you, Ciri. Witchers can’t actually tell when someone’s lying, provided they're good enough at it._ She remembered him smiling wryly as he added, _If we could, it’d save us a lot of aggravation--not to mention coin._ “Also, my name is Falka, not ‘woman’, if you don’t mind. I’m not after anything. Except maybe a splint and someplace with no forktails.”

The stockier witcher snorted softly. “Came to the wrong place for that last bit,” he said under his breath.

“Some manner of reflexive teleportation?” The mage asked curiously. Compared with the group of witchers, he seemed animated, expressive, although that might have been largely due to his stony company. “Tell me, has this happened before? Are you wearing any unusual devices that might be enchanted, perhaps a ring recently acquired, or a new weapon, or--”

Ciri shook her head, more against the fog that was creeping into it than in negation. “Zir... my sword, it shouldn’t be left outside--” Forktail blood would pit the blade, and the humidity -- _I don’t care if you’re vomiting from the exhaustion, girl. You take care of your sword before you close your eyes._

“Hasn’t been,” Almeric said, uninflected. Behind him, through the open door, the worn stones of the tight staircase were just visible in the flaring light of the hearthfire. The boy was back there, Ciri realized belatedly, crouched on the stairs and peeping in, his arms hugged tight around Zireal’s familiar shape, almost as long as he was tall. She wasn’t sure when he’d scurried up after it. Ciri nodded, exhaling hard through her nose against another wash of pain.

“--or perhaps seven-league boots; are those new boots? Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary, or otherwise uncanny, about them? Or --” the sorcerer continued, oblivious. He, like everyone else here, spoke with that same odd accent.

“Mn. I think those particular questions can wait. Smells like your kettle of celandine tea is hot, Sebastian,” the dark-skinned witcher said, perhaps a little pointedly.

“Oh, why -- yes, I think it is. Let me see here--” the sorcerer stepped back, the quebirth-stained hem of his robe dusting the floor.

That left Ciri the sole focus of four pairs of slitted, golden eyes. Most people, she imagined, would have cringed under the weight of those gazes. For Ciri, it just felt like memories of those few precious winters at Kaer Morhen, long and happy despite the effort of hard training. She was too tired to play at being intimidated, and rather doubted she’d do a good job of it, at any rate. “I’ve met Almeric; who are the rest of you?”

The witchers exchanged glances, obviously debating what to tell her. After a few moments, the dark-skinned witcher snorted. “Even if she was a sorceress, she can’t do much with only a name, can she?” he told the others. Turning to her, he tapped his chest. “I’m Jacek. That’s Tjold of Carreas,” indicating the stocky witcher, “-and Rennes du Pont Vanis is the grumpy one in front of you. Where do you hail from?”

The question was slipped into the introduction, as effortlessly as an Ofieri blade between the ribs. It was fortunate that Ciri had been expecting it. “Attre. But I was in Kaedwen when this happened--on a hunt.”

“No huntsman in their right mind would go after a forktail,” Rennes said, obviously not willing to take anything she said at face value. “Much less bring a woman along.”

“We weren’t *after* forktail,” Ciri said, mustering patience. It had been years since anyone had dared to be openly rude to her face--it was both refreshing and frustrating. _When I get home, I’m going to make sure I encourage Lambert to visit more often._ “We were hunting stag. But we were stupid--didn’t realize there was a nesting pair of forktails in the area until it was too late. We weren’t prepared for anything like that.”

“Surprised you’re still alive,” Tjold said neutrally.

Ciri shrugged one shoulder, careful not to jostle aching ribs. “Forktails are dangerous, but predictable. I’d taken one down, but the mate wasn’t about to let it go. I was trying to get under her stoop, someone threw the wrong spell in the middle of the fight, and the next thing I know, I’m here. Falling.”

“You. Killed a forktail.” Rennes expression was eloquent in its disbelief. The others were also showing varying degrees of skepticism. Except for Almeric, who tipped his head to one side.

“Fresh forktail blood on her hands,” he reminded them. “And her blade.”

“Could be bottled. What would a woman know about hunting monsters?” Rennes said sourly.

“Quite a bit, actually,” Ciri shot back, thinking fast. She knew far too much about the School of the Wolf to pretend to be ordinary in front of these men. Hell, given the observational abilities of witchers, even her walk or habits or the make of her sword sheath might give her away, even if she *hadn’t* babbled on about Kaer Morhen in front of Almeric. But she couldn’t mention Geralt. He was too famous--or notorious, depending on who you asked--for them not to put the pieces together and figure out who she truly was. So she needed to use the truth, albeit one salted liberally with misdirection. She squared her shoulders, facing down Rennes’ scorn. “I’m a child by the law of surprise. My … foster-father taught me.”

*That* set them back on their heels. The small group of witchers regarded her with new interest.

“Impossible,” Rennes snapped. “You’re no--”

“Witcher? Obviously not. Not a boy, as you may have noticed,” Ciri said dryly, waving a hand down at her … assets. Jacek chuckled. “He didn’t need a girl; wasn’t even going to claim me. But … my family was dead. I had nowhere else to go, so he took me in. He taught me what he knew best--how to fight, how to hunt. How to survive.”

“He was School of the Wolf?” Almeric asked, glancing down at the medallion that still hung from her belt. Ciri nodded. “What was his name?”

“Thomas,” Ciri said. _Sorry, Geralt._ A name as common as Thomas--if she was lucky, there would be at least a couple of witchers that had gone by that name. And even if not--well, it was obvious that this cadre of witchers had been cut off from the world for some time. “Thomas of Gwendeith--that’s how I knew him, at least.”

“Aah, here we are,” interrupted the alchemist, Sebastian, as he approached with a heavy pottery mug, its rim chipped in places. Steam rose from the surface, and Ciri accepted the warm, unpainted ceramic eagerly. The heat felt good, seeping into the palms of her hands. Flecks of yellow celandine floated in the liquid, releasing the painkilling plant’s slightly bitter scent. Ciri sipped cautiously, more from the heat than from fear of being drugged. Oh, it was possible, she supposed -- verbena and white myrtle could make an imbiber more talkative -- but she didn’t smell anything but celandine, and besides, her leg *hurt* now, an insistent and constant throbbing.

“Thank you,” she said, giving him a grateful smile. To her surprise, he actually looked a bit flustered at the thanks, cheeks turning a bit red from more than just the fire.

“This witcher you say taught you,” Tjold said. “He’s dead?” He nodded at the medallion.

“Yes.” Ciri replied. It wasn’t hard to summon enough grief to make the answer convincing. All she had to do was think of Vesemir.

“You honestly expect us to swallow this ridiculous story?” Rennes said. Ciri’s fingers tightened around the mug, and she resisted the temptation to throw it at his sneering face. “That some apostate witcher decided to train you, then conveniently died? And that it was only due to chance and not design that you somehow end up here, of all places? Do you think us fools?”

“Well, that wasn’t my first assumption, no,” Ciri said sweetly, biting off the words. “But I’m starting to reconsider, given that your alternate theory seems to be that I somehow managed to steal a medallion, decided to sneak *into* a castle full of witchers, and then dumped forktail blood all over myself and broke my leg, all in the hopes of making myself ...what? Less suspicious? Harder to catch?” It was stupid to antagonize these men, she knew. But it was hard to look at those faces and not be reminded of the easy joking and camaraderie she’d given up when she ascended the throne. _Geralt, Eskel … I wish you were here._

“You impudent--!” Rennes started forward, only to be stopped by Tjold’s hand on his shoulder.

“Enough. It’s late, and the woman has injuries that need to be tended to,” he told the other man. “We’re not going to chase this down in a single night.”

“She has made extraordinary claims,” Jacek put in, glancing between them both. “But it should be easy enough to test her and see what she truly knows. In the meantime, we can keep her under guard. Master Sebastian can put up wards as well--if she did use a portal to arrive, we can at least ensure she won’t be able to use one to escape.”

Rennes scowled for a moment, obviously torn between listening to his fellow witchers and continuing the interrogation. Then he brushed Tjold’s hand off his shoulder, abruptly turning away. “Very well. Splint her leg, and ensure that she doesn’t die of chill before we get some answers out of her. Master Sebastian, you will set the wards when it is done. Almeric, arrange for a guard rotation.” Drawing his woolen mantle closer about his shoulders, he stalked out of the room.

Tjold clicked his tongue, shaking his head at Rennes’ dramatic exit. “Very well. You heard him. Boy!” The boy in question untucked himself from his corner and trotted forward, still holding her sword awkwardly. “I’ll take that, I think,” Tjold said, reaching down and taking Zirael. He looked the elven blade over with a professional eye. “Beautiful piece of work,” he remarked. “Not sure I’ve seen better.”

“It was a gift,” Ciri said tiredly. It was hard to see her sword in the hands of another. She wanted to demand it back, but knew it would be pointless to even try.

“Hm.” Tjold looked from it to her for a moment, but didn’t comment further. Instead he left, taking Zirael with him.

“Go get some splints and winding cloth,” Jacek told the boy, who nodded eagerly and took off again. “Don’t worry,” he said, not unkindly. “If what you’ve told us is true, then you need not fear. Tjold is our weapons-master. He’ll keep your sword safe.”

“Thank you,” Ciri said, grateful for the reassurance, even if she suspected there were ulterior motives behind it. Emhyr had taught her, after all, how easy it was to gain the trust of a confused and wounded man by virtue of a few kind gestures. She took another sip, distracting herself with the tea as Almeric and Jacek moved off to confer out of earshot. The celandine was beginning to take the edge off the pain, which she was grateful for, but that also made it harder for her to stay alert.

Sebastian bustled about, inscribing unfamiliar and glowing runes on the walls at each of the cardinal directions. Several times he began to say something to her, only to stop short as Almeric cleared his throat pointedly.

The boy returned with bandages and sanded lengths of wood soon enough. The bandages were good quality, a thick roll of linen woven so it would not stick to flesh -- not the torn strips of various other fabrics that she’d winced to see Geralt use on himself. Army medics, dealing with large numbers of wounded, had rolls like this amidst their supplies. Either people in this part of the world got hurt a very great deal, or this little enclave of witchers was getting bandages specially made for them. It was a good sign, probably; hinted at ongoing trade with at least some weavers in nearby villages.

Ciri finished off the last of the tea, swallowing the celandine flakes that’d settled to the bottom, and gingerly set the mug on the flagstones. She had to push on the armrest to lever herself upright again, but at least it didn’t feel like she was being stabbed in the lung anymore. The sorcerer sidled a little closer, and Ciri eyed him. “Could I get you something stronger? Perhaps some monkshood resin, or I have a vial of ether--”

“Thank you, but no. I’ve had bones reset before.” Ciri said, and watched as the alchemist backed up under Almeric’s level glare. She couldn’t help but smile a bit at the interaction. She’d never quite been able to figure out the relationship between mages and witchers; Geralt and the others all had been forced to kill sorcerers, often several, and always seemed distrusting of the power they wielded. Yet Triss and Yen had been accepted without question -- so far as she knew -- into Kaer Morhen itself, where the witchers simply refused to be overawed. Perhaps it was only because those two were Geralt’s allies, and yet… Ciri couldn’t help but feel that they fit there, somehow.

Almeric settled into an easy crouch in front of her, looking over the problem once more. Beside him, the boy jittered impatiently, shifting weight leg to leg, arms overflowing with supplies. “You want to keep the boot intact? Or the trousers?” Almeric said.

Ciri weighed her options. “Yes to the boots,” she said, finally, and Almeric started unlacing the left one. The laces were already pulled too tight from the swelling around the break, and each jerk made her wince and curl her fingers tight around the chair’s armrests. It was even worse when he pulled the loosened boot entirely off, but at least she didn’t faint, so there was that.

The trousers were easier; Almeric slit the threading holding the seam together, from knee to ankle, then rolled the loose leather carefully up and over her bent knee. “Ready?” he asked, looking up.

Ciri nodded. The witcher kept his touch careful, feeling out the exact position of the break, determining the set of the bones, while the boy watched with wide eyes. Satisfied, the witcher put a palm to her knee, wrapped a hand around her ankle, and pulled against the resistance of her cramping muscles to align the break.

It was quickly done, at least, although that was about the only good thing Ciri could say for the experience. By the time her vision had stopped swimming and she’d wrestled the nausea down to a manageable level, the boy was holding the splints in place while Almeric wrapped the leg, immobilizing it with easy expertise. He was apparently also using it as a teachable moment, giving commentary to the boy as he went.

“The bindings need to be tight, but not too tight.” Almeric’s hands were deft as he wound the bandages, letting the boy adjust his grip as needed. “If you can’t feel the limb afterwards, that’s bad. If the skin starts turning white or dark beneath the wrappings, that’s also bad--you will kill the flesh underneath and lose the arm or leg if you wrap something too tight for too long. See, here? This is too loose. You need to be able to slip a finger underneath easily, but not two.” The boy nodded seriously, reddish-brown hair flopping into his eyes.

Despite her fatigue, Ciri couldn’t help but smile down at that earnest little face. Smudged with dirt, with unremarkable features and wide hazel eyes, the boy obviously was well-trained, taking the impromptu lesson well. “You know, I never did get your name,” she said. “What should I call you?”

The boy glanced over at Almeric, who gave him a brief nod, granting permission. He let go as Almeric finished tying off the splint, puffing up under the attention. “I’m Geralt,” he said proudly. “Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde!”

Ciri froze. “Wh-what?”

The boy--Geralt--frowned, looking uncertain. “‘m Geralt. And you’re Falka. I heard you say so. Right?” He glanced at Almeric for confirmation. The older witcher was sitting back on his heels, regarding her intently.

“You seem surprised,” he said neutrally, making it a statement rather than a question.

“I--” Caught off-guard, Ciri floundered. It was impossible. There was no way--but Almeric was still expecting an answer, and she groped frantically for a plausible one. “I--It’s just such a… long and err, interesting name. For a boy. Here. I guess it surprised me.”

“Vesemir says it’s silly,” the boy confessed under his breath, looking very much aggrieved to find that Ciri had the same opinion of the name.

Almeric ignored the child. “Is that so.” It was pretty clear that Almeric wasn’t buying her explanation, but the laconic witcher didn’t call her on it. Instead he gathered up the extra materials, bundling them together, and stood up. “The pallet should be on its way. Sebastian, are the wards almost ready?”

“Yes, almost, I just--” Sebastian puttered around the room a few more times, adding fiddly little touches to the sigils. “Never hurts to be thorough--there. With this variation on the binding and dissolution runes, dispelling them from the inside will be almost impossible, and we can …”

“Yes, yes, very clever,” Jacek put in, obviously familiar with Sebastian’s tendency to ramble. “Let’s not bore our guest with all the details of how we’re locking her in, shall we? Time to go.” He waved the mage out from his position by the door.

“The garderobe is just through there, and perhaps I’d best go get a staff; had one quite like a crutch at one ti --” the mage’s words trailed off, voice echoing, swallowed by thick stone walls.

Ciri -- was trying very hard not to stare. Because the witchers would notice that, although damnation, they’ve probably already noticed her reaction. But he -- he was so *small,* just blinking up at her with a quizzical expression, eyes alert and interested. A disturbance at the door caught the boy’s -- Geralt’s -- attention, and he scurried to Almeric’s side as two lean and rangy youths jointly maneuvered a wooden cot through the narrow doorway, a thin mattress already laid atop the wooden slats. Both of them… both of them had golden eyes. Carrying a small wooden tray balanced atop a sloshing basin, another boy, smaller than even Geralt, trailed in behind. He peeped at her curiously, then caught sight of Jacek’s glower and hurried to set his burdens on a footstool and dart away, silverfish quick.

Almeric whistled sharply. Both of the teenagers jolted, and left off their own awestruck staring (on one boy’s part) and chest-puffed posing (on the other’s) to hurriedly set up the cot and file reluctantly back out. Almeric glanced down at her. “Jacek or another of us will be immediately outside that door. If you need something.” _So don’t try anything,_ his tone heavily implied.

Ciri closed her mouth, back teeth clicking firmly. She nodded slowly. “Right. The morning, then,” she said, voice almost level.

This wasn’t another world, or another continent. This was Kaer Morhen.

Which meant only one thing: by morning, she had to be gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic takes place after the 'Empress Cirilla' ending of Witcher 3, and incorporates characters and other canon material from both the novels and all three games. That said, the source material does not line up perfectly, so there may be discrepancies. Thank you very much for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for mentions of child death/harm in this chapter.

Finally alone, Ciri put her head in her hands.

 _Alright, think._ Skips in time, she used those often enough -- a moment forward or back, just enough to get behind an assassin, to slit an ancient evil from throat to crotch before it even spoke the first words of a curse that would have…. And she’d taken longer journeys through the histories and futures of a dozen different worlds, in her long flight from the Wild Hunt. But this … if that was truly Geralt, *her* Geralt, if this was Kaer Morhen, then she’d been flung farther than she could remember going before. She’d jumped a hundred years back in time. In her *own* world.

As obsessed as Avallac’h had been with the Elder Blood and her abilities, the elven mage had also been horrified by that particular possibility. There’d been lectures and metaphors about butterflies and black swans and grandfathers from which, eventually, she’d taken the lesson that it could be a colossally bad idea to inextricably warp the course of any history she cared about.

What would this mean? Had she already changed something, just by meeting Geralt as a child? Something important enough that it would catalyse an unforeseeable chain of consequences? If she had, would there be a home for her to return to -- or at least, any home she recognized? Or maybe she would recognize it, because she herself would also be changed; the choices she had made and all the choices that had made her in return altered, all subtly twisted from true, the person she had been erased as if she never was. She rubbed at her eyes. Being empress had taught her more than a little about unintended consequences, and that was with merely sovereign power at her command. How much worse would this be? And …

...and now she had forktail blood on her face.

“Damn it.” Ciri blew out a breath and straightened her back, then, wincing, investigated the burdens the second boy had brought. The tray held a bowl -- stewed oat porridge of sorts with nuts, dried fruit, and some oily gravy -- a square of frayed linen, and a spoon. The basin underneath contained several inches of bitterly cold water. Ciri dipped her ceramic mug into the slush to reserve some for later. Snowmelt wasn’t exactly up to the standards of the palace baths, but the dampened bit of linen took care of the worst stains of battle.

Ciri managed a few bites of the congealed porridge, thinking. She had to make as few changes to history as possible. Which meant that she needed to both recover as quickly as possible *and* figure out how to get back. And stay alive while doing all those things.

Crossing through space was almost trivial now; like folding a string in half, end to end. Time jumps -- or at least, purposeful time jumps -- those were harder, like folding the same string across its width, lengthwise. Landing with any kind of precision … well, it took some work.

Ciri set the bowl aside, and ignoring the renewed throbbing, levered herself carefully to her feet. Or foot, rather. A cut length of branch from the woodpile beside the hearth served well enough as a makeshift cane, at least for the purposes of exploring the room. If there wasn’t a spare swallow or kiss potion around here, perhaps she could find enough supplies to make one. A weak version took just a few hours to brew, though the resulting nausea afterwards would lay her out for a while.

Using her makeshift crutch, Ciri slowly explored the room, poking around in every nook and cranny. She kept half-expecting some familiar features to jump out at her, some orientation of walls and furnishings that reminded her of the Kaer Morhen she had known. But nothing stood out. The room was composed of unremarkable stone floors and walls that could belong to any northern castle, with narrow-slitted windows that gave a view only of the frost-gilded moon. The furnishings -- a small table, a set of shelves, and a couple low chairs -- were well-made and sturdy, but not fancy, with very little in the way of ornamentation. The same held true for the heavy tapestries on the walls. Meant to cut the chill from outside, they were thickly woven but plain, devoid of figures or patterning.

There was certainly nothing left behind that she could use as a weapon, unless she wanted to try to take down trained witchers with nothing better than an improvised club. Ciri hadn’t really expected otherwise. There were a few other pieces of bric-a-brac; the stubs of half-burned candles, a forgotten wooden tray, a stained bit of cloth that lay discarded in the corner. But nothing that she could use right now.

That … left her with few options, none of them good. She was already feeling a measure better, could sense the silvery threads of power massing once more in her mind, perhaps enough to try teleporting--but where? She had a broken leg, no weapons, clothing that would almost certainly make her a target, and no idea where she would be safe. Adalia the Seer, destined to become Queen Calanthe’s mother, would be only a babe now; Muriel was still called ‘the delightful.’ Kameny and Garramone were forging an alliance that would someday shape Cintra, but for now, both had their hands full just fending off warlords and bandits.

She could go further south, but the golden towers of Nilfgaard were hardly safe--the city and most of the outlying provinces were currently in the grip of a bloody civil war. And most northern lands of this time were little better than a group of eternally-feuding, neighbor-raiding baronies in the same vein as Skellige. Novigrad might be a possibility, or another trade city further south--but wherever she went, she risked falling afoul of a plague, a witch hunt, or any number of other untimely ends. And the same problem applied--what if she altered her own history, just by visiting any of these places?

Ciri levered herself down onto the cot, because these weren’t the kind of thoughts one should stew over while hobbling around on one leg. The blankets were quilted, stuffed with down -- griffon down, she found, when she plucked at a barb that’d escaped the cloth weave. She brushed the distinctively-barred feather to the ground. Where in all the frozen hells could she even go?

The feather abruptly scooted across the flagstones towards the door, scudding and bumping in an eddy of air, then came whooshing back the other way. The stones trembled ever so slightly, and a faint wail rose from somewhere deeper in the castle.

Every muscle and sinew protesting, Ciri stood, took up her branch, and wobbled over to the heavy, iron-banded door. Pressing her ear up against the wood, Ciri couldn’t hear a thing. Which didn’t mean much, because at this distance, the witcher on the other side could probably hear her heartbeat. But the witcher must have heard something else as well -- chainmail gave a faint chime, like an armored man shifting his weight. After a few moments, Ciri started to make out a breathless rapid pounding of feet up uneven stairs, and muffled, high-pitched voices.

“--just puttin’ out the fireplace wiv Aard but ‘e blew over Sebastian’s alembic n’ now there’s a hole what goes right downta tha cisterns n’e fell and we tried goin’ after ‘im but Piotr heard drowners like n’--”

“Melitele’s tits -- you -- no.” More muffled voices. “Who the fuck fell in?”

Ciri couldn’t hear the answer, but the witcher’s curse in reply made her eyes water. She’d not even heard better in Skellige, and that was quite a feat. “Ploughing-- alright. No. Just stand here, and don’t get into any more cock-ups for ten fucking minutes,” the witcher hissed, and then his booted footsteps were retreating. It must be serious, then.

Should she take advantage of the distraction, and teleport outside the room? No, that would still leave her in the middle of Kaer Morhen. She couldn’t sneak unnoticed past the eyes and ears--and noses--of entire castle full of witchers, even if she didn’t have her leg and ribs to contend with.

Yennefer liked to say that every problem had a solution; you just had to look at it the right way. Geralt--well, Geralt tended to more practical answers.

_‘Watch your enemy before you pick a fight--more than one witcher’s lost his life because he moved too soon. You want to hunt wolves? You gotta know where they go, and why. Go get your rucksack; we’re going to shadow a pack this week.’_

Resolved to bide her time, Ciri turned. She was halfway back to the fire-- when something rattled past the windows. _What the …?_

More pebbles clattered down, this time accompanied by the scuffing of feet on stone. And whispers. Several of them.

“...shhh!”

“You shhh!”

“Move yer hand already! I wanna s--”

“Hello,” Ciri called, taking a chance. Apparently she wasn’t the only one who had thought to take advantage of the distraction. “I can hear you, you know.”

For a moment, there was silence. Then, with a bit more shuffling, a small figure peered in the window. “You don’t look like a girl witcher,” it said, half-accusingly.

“What does a girl witcher look like, exactly?” Ciri replied, amused. “And how are you *doing* that?” They were at least fifty feet up; surely the boy wasn’t clinging to the walls like a gargoyle?

“Geralt found a rope ladder,” the boy confided. “Don’t tell!”

“I won’t--but I think you’d better get inside, or someone is going to see you,” Ciri pointed out, although she was rather more concerned about helplessly watching children fall to their certain deaths than she was about discovery.

“Okay,” the boy said eagerly. The windows might have been too narrow for an adult, but they were more than large enough for her much-smaller intruder. He clambered in, then stuck his head back out. “C’mon!” he hissed.

“‘m coming!” a second childish voice whispered back, and a second boy climbed in as the first jumped to the floor, lithe as a cat. Ciri’s eyebrows went up as a third began wiggling through the gap.

“How many of you are there?”

“Umm--just us?” the first boy said, counting on his fingers. “Me, Eric, and Eskel. An’ Geralt, of course, ‘cause it’s his ladder and his idea and he found you an’ all.”

 _Eskel?_ But she didn’t have long to look for familiar features, because Geralt poked his head around the edge of the window, the rough-woven cordage of the rope ladder just visible as he grabbed ahold of the sill. “Told you, didn’t I?” he said, apparently to the other boys. “A girl witcher. And she just fell out of the air!” Ciri let out a breath of relief as he clambered safely in.

“How come your hair’s all gray? You don’t look old,” one of the other boys said, as Ciri found herself the focus of four sets of fascinated eyes.

“Are you a sorceress?”

“Were you in a magic fight?”

“Do you fight with a magic sword?”

“Can we see your sword?”

“Don’t be stupid--Master Tjold took it,” Geralt said disdainfully, pushing at the taller boy. HIs fellow trainee gave as good as he got, and a brief tussle ensued, even as the other two continued to pepper her with questions.

“Are there other girl witchers?”

“Have you killed a lot of monsters?”

“Whoa, hold on,” Ciri said, holding up her hands in mock-protest. “If I’m going to be interrogated, I think I need to sit down.” She hobbled over to one of the chairs by the fire and lowered herself carefully back down--breathing a tiny sigh of relief once the pressure was off of her ribs and leg. “Ok, now, if I am to answer your questions, then it seems only fair that I know which name belongs to which boy.”

“I’m Geralt!” Geralt offered eagerly, as if she could have forgotten. Was there a hint of Geralt’s jawline in that little face, something in the brow or eyes that might recall something of the witcher he’d become? If there was, she couldn’t see it as Geralt wiped his nose, red from the cold, on the back of his sleeve.

“I’m Klimek; didja really fight a forktail?” said the first, most talkative boy, crowded up close to her chair.

“I sure did, but I didn’t have any draconid oil, or grapeshot bombs, so it was very difficult,” Ciri said, and couldn’t keep the smile from her lips at the chorus of very impressed ‘woahs’ that issued from her young audience. She searched another wide-eyed little face. “And you’re… Eric?”

“I’m Eric! He’s Eskel. He don’t talk much. Did you use Aard?”

Something pounded on the door, and Ciri froze. It was pretty clear that the trainees weren’t supposed to be in here, and if they’d been found out -- but then a voice called through. “Hey! You said you’d tell us what she was like!” The voice broke, bobbing up and down a couple of octaves.

Klimek trotted over. “Geralt was right! It’s a girl witcher, and she got tits.”

A very impressed sound filtered through the door.

“Eskel,” Ciri said, smiling. She should have known by the cheekbones. Eskel would become a remarkably handsome young man. She’d never known him without the scar, but Lambert said he used to have maidens just hanging off his saddle. She offered a hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Eskel was only a little larger than Geralt, and looked to be about the same age, with a mop of disheveled black hair that fell over his eyes. After a startled glance at his companions, he took her hand and tentatively shook it, obviously uncertain whether he was doing it correctly. “Hello,” he said. Then his eyes widened as he looked at her hand. “Geralt,” he said. “She’s got other scars too. Just like--”

Ciri glanced down at her hand and the exposed part of her forearm. Compared to the arms of a veteran witcher, her little collection of marks weren’t much, but the white lines and sword callouses were certainly evidence enough of the life she had led before ascending the throne.

All three of the remaining boys crowded around, newly interested in the faded scars. “Have you been in a lot of fights?” Geralt asked, interested. Ciri nodded.

“Are those all from forktails?” Eric asked. Ciri dragged her attention away from Geralt and Eskel. Eric was a sturdy little boy, a bit smaller than the others, with bright blue eyes, blondish hair, and dirt smudged across a freckled nose. He had bruises up and down both forearms, like he’d been on the losing end of a wooden practice sword. The pattern was familiar; Ciri had worn similar bruises proudly for most of her years at Kaer Morhen.

“Oh no--I’ve fought plenty of other things. Wyverns, drowners, werewolves--sometimes people too,” Ciri told him. “What about you four? Are you fighting monsters yet?”

“I stabbed a rat yesterday,” Geralt offered proudly. “Big one too.”

“Hey,” came the muffled voice again through the door. “Is she pretty?”

Klimek shrugged. “I guess so? She’s tall, n’ her eyes are real green like. And she fought a wyvern, and she has a scar on her face just like Master Frederic!” He was obviously very impressed by the latter.

“... “ The trainee on the other side of the door didn’t seem to know what to make of that. Ciri snorted softly in amusement.

“Eskel got a hydra-snake. Just a little one, wiv two heads. Bit Alec right on ‘is leg fore Eskel got it with a stick, it did.” Eric added. “How come you got a scar like Master Frederic’s? Was it cause of a mob wot was mad at you for li-cent-ous-ness too?”

“Err, not exactly.” Ciri rubbed the back of her neck. “I did make some people mad, though, just by being alive. One of them threw an orion at me. It’s a weapon from the south, shaped like a flat star, about the size of the palm of my hand,” Ciri explained when the boys gave her blank looks.

“Oooh. Can’t you hit them onions out of the air, like an arrow?”

Ugh, she really shouldn’t laugh. Her ribs. “Maybe so, but I didn’t have my sword out. And I didn’t know how much he hated me, didn’t even know the weapon was coming, not until it was too late.”

“That’s the hard thing about fighting people,” Eskel said, looking at her seriously.

“Yeah,” Ciri said quietly. “It is.” It was a difficult lesson, and one that she’d never want a boy so young to have to learn. Ciri had to curl her fingers around the chair’s arms, just to keep from reaching out and dragging Eskel into a tight hug.

“Also, fighting people is hard because sometimes they’re gonna be wearing plate mail,” Geralt put in eagerly.

“Hey! What’s she saying now?”

Klimek jittered, torn between reporting through the door and racing over to examine Ciri’s facial scar with the other boys. “She can hit arrows out of the air, just like Master Almeric! Not onions, though, if she don’t see ‘em coming.”

“Wow, arrows?”

“Us little’uns ain’t supposedta deflect arrows till spring,” Eric told Ciri. “Only thrown stuff, like rocks ‘er apples. Will you show us, though?”

“Err, well.” Ciri hesitated. “I can try, but I’m still not very good at it.” At least, not without using her power. “Takes a lot of practice, and you need to be really, really fast and coordinated. It’s probably better that you wait a bit.” None of these boys could be older than maybe nine or ten. Hardly a suitable age for starting on one of the most difficult and dangerous witcher sword techniques, even if they were practicing with less-lethal thrown objects right now.

“We’re gonna be fast like that, though!” Eric protested. “And co-orbinated, too, come spring!”

“What happens this spring?” Ciri asked, a cold lump twisting in her belly. Surely it was too soon for ....

“The trials!”

“Master Sebastian says that’s when we get to be witchers, almost,” Geralt added, face eager. “An’ learn all sorts of awesome new stuff.”

“Yeah, like potions and glyphs an’ fighting with real swords!” Klimek put in. “So that we can go out and kill monsters and keep everyone safe when we get big.”

This time, there was nothing but silence from the other side of the door. And looking at those innocent, eager faces, Ciri found she had no words. Geralt and Eskel … she knew they would live, at least. But she had never thought to ask who else they’d taken the Trials with; hadn’t wanted to pry into painful memories of fallen friends, or ask them to revisit the horrors they’d survived.

And now … if she left, she would forever have those small faces etched into her memory--would always wonder. How could she leave these boys to the maw of the Trials, knowing that most of them wouldn’t return?

“Hey--Dorek’s comin’ back,” came the muffled warning through the door, low and urgent. “Get outta there or he’s gonna hear you!”

“Uh oh,” Klimek breathed.

“Gotta go!” Geralt blurted, scampering for the window, Eskel and Eric hard on his heels.

Ciri held her breath, resisting the urge to tell them to be careful. This high up, if any of them fell… or what if they fell and it was because of her, because she’d altered the flow of history and--but neither the darkness nor the height seemed to bother any of the boys. Eskel slipped his bare foot into Geralt’s cupped hands and, with the extra boost, jumped easily up to the high window ledge. He wiggled his way into the slot and reached fearlessly out to hook the side of the dangling rope ladder. Eskel launched himself onto it like a squirrel, scurrying straight up. The other two boys did the same, Klimek leaning back in to give Geralt a hand up. And then only Geralt was left, crouched in the window. He flashed her an irrepressible grin.

“Sorry, witcher lady!”

“Don’t worry,” she forced herself to say, finally allowing herself to stare, to soak in every bit of those unfamiliar features: the dark eyes, unkempt ginger hair, and that round, unscarred face. “We’ll meet again. Go -- be safe.” _I love you so much,_ she couldn’t say.

“OK,” Geralt said, and swung out into the darkness, scampering up the rope ladder with fearless ease. Within moments, it was as if the boys were never there--which, given their age, was an impressive feat. Ciri could see why they’d been chosen.

Chosen for the Trial of Grasses. Oh sweet Melitele.

 

 

 

*****

The rest of the night was uneventful, and without any other visitors, expected or otherwise. Sleep, however, proved elusive, leaving Ciri gritty-eyed and awake as the first gray light of predawn began to chase away the stars.

She could feel the silvered threads of her power again, coiled and ready in the back of her skull. Wards or no wards, she was sure she could leave Kaer Morhen behind whenever she wished. But that always and inevitably brought her to the same questions.

The easy answer, of course, was: return to her own time. Do whatever she needed to in order to return to her throne, her consort-- to Geralt and Yen and the precious few friends and family she still had left.

But … surely it wouldn’t hurt anything if she let herself heal, first? Nothing dire had happened so far. Her involvement here certainly couldn’t *increase* the risk to Geralt or Eskel, given what they already faced. She would need time to feel her way through the timejump anyway, if she wanted to make sure she returned to the exact time and place she’d left. Or, considering the attempted assassination that started this whole mess, perhaps she had best aim for someplace far enough away to be safe, without throwing the entire Nilfgaardian Empire into chaos.

So she was awake, trying to decide whether to wash her face in the mug of water she’d reserved or to drink it, when voices rose on the landing outside. The argument was heated, muffled but audible even over the distant clacking that had started before dawn -- wooden training swords, no doubt, although she could not see the fortress courtyards from here.

After a few moments, someone used a heavy fist to knock -- or pound, rather -- on the door. “Come in,” Ciri called, before they’d managed two good thuds.

A key clicked in the heavy lock, and then the banded door swung open. Rennes, the one-armed witcher, was there -- as well as another. From the scar, she thought it might be Frederic, the witcher who’d apparently been run out of town for, err, certain excesses. If so, those adventures were in the past, however -- Frederic looked to be around Vesemir’s age. His back was bowed a little, gut thickened by good ale and bread, and his beard and hair were graying. The gold of his eyes seemed tarnished, a little more orange than yellow. He might be three hundred years old or five hundred; no way to really be sure just from looking. Ciri watched him curiously: he was only the second middle-aged witcher she’d ever met. None of the other witcher schools in her era had anyone who’d approached this age.

Rennes eyed Ciri with suspicion. Ciri shrugged one shoulder. “Still here,” she said, pointing out the obvious.

“Really.” said Frederic flatly. “This. This is the existential threat that may strike at our very existence.”

“Nice to be thought of so highly,” Ciri put in tiredly.

Rennes clenched his teeth, the muscles in his jaw jumping. “Enough. Just find out what she knows. And if you sense any threat--”

Frederic shot back a level look. “Oh yes. If this wee slip of a young woman holds me hostage with a footstool, I’ll be sure to call in the killers, shall I? Go, get off with you.”

Rennes pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “Damnation, Frederic. She’s more than she seems. Just find out--”

“Not so far in my dotage that I can’t recall your instructions, pup. Go terrorize some drowners. It’ll do you good, mark my words.”

“Fine. Watch your back.” Looking more than a little like he’d bitten into an Olferi yellowfruit, Rennes stalked out.

Frederic nudged the door half-closed behind him, then blew out a breath. “Well now. Wish I knew what you’d done to rile him up so; would welcome the pointers.”

Ciri smiled a little. “Getting teleported onto your rooftop, covered in forktail blood, and telling improbable tales might have had something to do with it. Wouldn’t recommend the experience, honestly. I’m Falka, by the way.”

Frederic grunted an acknowledgement, coming around to the chair across from hers. He moved more slowly than the other witchers, but still, like Vesemir, with that same lupine grace. “I’ll keep that in mind, Falka. I’m Frederic. Sounded like some of those stories had you being raised by witchers.”

“One. Thomas of Gwendeith,” Ciri said, having taken care to roll the name into her memory, until it flowed from her lips without the least hesitation. “And yes, I lived with him for just under three years. Met up with him from time to time, after.”

“Umph,” Frederic lowered himself down into the seat with a bit of a dramatic flair. “So. What killed him?”

Ciri snorted, her own jaw tightening. It hadn’t been difficult to decide on the most likely cause of death for a witcher in his prime, once she’d given it some thought. “Far as I’ve been able to tell? The people he’d just saved.”

“Oh?” Frederic’s voice was carefully neutral, giving no indication whether he believed her words to be truth or a lie. “Wouldn’t be the first.”

“There was a mob.” Even now, after so many years, after Geralt alive and with Yen and *happy*, the memory of his death still hurt, ambushing her when she least expected it. She could still feel Geralt’s cooling blood slicking her hands, sometimes; could remember the horrible sound of his breath shuddering into that final, awful stillness. Ciri remembered the sight of Yennefer, her eyes and hands blazing white-hot with power and despair as she poured everything she had into one final, terrible effort to revive him, snuffing out her own life in the process. Ciri let her grief show; there was no need for a court mask here. “They were killing nonhumans. He -- I only saw him after. I think he got blindsided.” _Three teeth. That stupid, *stupid* prophecy._ “I took his body away -- made sure it was burned properly.”

“And took his medallion,” Frederic observed.

“Yes.” Ciri gave him a level look, daring him to challenge her right to it. “I don’t go around claiming to be a witcher, if that’s your concern. But I’m not going to act like he never existed.”

“Laudable, I suppose,” was Frederic’s answer, devoid of either approbation or irony. It was a good thing Ciri had spent years learning how to see past her father’s imperial mask. Compared to Emhyr, reading Frederic was child’s play, and while she didn’t think he was wholly convinced, he didn’t seem to have spotted anything that marked her as a liar. “This witcher, Thomas--what did he teach you, then?”

“What he knew best,” Ciri replied. “Bladework, traps, poisons. How to survive in the wilds. How to skin a beast, and what parts were valuable or useful. Even how to brew potions, the few I could use, anyway, considering I would never undergo the Trials.”

Frederic’s eyes narrowed. “He spoke of the Trials to you?”

 _Damn._ She’d forgotten how carefully the witcher schools had guarded that particular secret. “Yes, though he never spoke much of the specifics. Just a little, when I wanted to know why I couldn’t do or learn something.” She gave an offhand shrug. “I was a demanding child.”

“I can imagine,” Frederic said dryly, and Ciri grinned. “It seems he taught you a great deal. So tell me--how do you hunt a forktail?”

“Well, certainly not by going in armed for deer,” Ciri shot back. “If I had time to plan, I’d make sure I had draconid oil and at least a couple grapeshot bombs to hand, for one. Thicker leathers, for another. I’d try to use the forktail’s aggression against it: mark out its territory, pick a spot, use some bait if necessary. Drawing it back into the trees can help. Then it’s just a matter of staying in close so it can’t get in a good tail swing. I prefer to stay just to one side of the head, myself--harder for them to get in a bite, and all sorts of nice soft spots to go after once you’re in position. As long as you don’t get ambushed or mobbed, it’s not too hard a hunt.”

“A bit unconventional, but I could see how that would work,” Frederic allowed. He too leaned back, lacing hands comfortably over his stomach. “You mentioned draconid oil. How do you make it?”

“Dog tallow and a scant palmful of ergot seeds--crush the seeds powder-fine and mix thoroughly, then reduce over white coals for no longer than forty minutes,” Ciri replied. “Decant into a flask after the mixture has cooled, not before--it needs to be exposed to air for full potency. You can also up the potency by re-brewing the basic oil with moleyarrow, bryonia, arenaria, ursine tallow and--” Ciri frowned, trying to remember Geralt’s lessons. It had been a while since she’d had to brew any. “Oh yes, cockatrice stomach and nekker warrior liver, but honestly, I usually don’t bother for forktails. The standard oil is usually enough to do the job, and finding the other ingredients can be a pain.” It’s not like she kept chopped up monster bits in her saddlebags, after all.

Frederic’s eyebrows climbed throughout the recitation. “Cockatrice stomach.”

Ciri nodded. “Yes. The small glands around the narrower part, just before the gut, to be more precise. The dark ones, you know -- about the size of grapes. Better to strip off the entire band of them, or else it’s too easy to cut through the little channels. Then it gets all over.”

The corner of Frederic’s mouth curled up. “Cockatrice bile will ploughing stain anything.”

Ciri half-laughed, then winced at her ribs again. “Stinks like a zeugl, too. Got it all over my gloves once. Tried everything, washed them in oil, tomato juice, lye, you name it. Finally had to burn them.” They’d been her favorite gloves, but she couldn’t even keep them in the camp without gagging. Geralt had stuck it out for five days, until at last she’d admitted defeat. Then he’d solemnly helped her build a little pyre for them.

“Archespore juice,” said Frederick abruptly. Ciri blinked. “Won’t touch the stain, but it does cut the smell.”

“Huh.” Wouldn’t have mattered anyway, since they’d been much too far north for archespores, but still. Ciri gave that some thought, wondered if Geralt had known that trick. Maybe he didn’t -- it was such a minor thing, and yet... a very great deal of lore must’ve been lost as the witchers died out. “I knew it worked wonders for quenching hot steel, but -- doesn’t that dissolve the leather?”

“Only soak them for ten minutes or so. Degreases cookware, too.”

“Thanks,” Ciri smiled, more than a little delighted with the unexpected tidbit. “I’ll have to try that. Any idea if it’s a substitute for water essence?”

They talked a little more about hunting techniques and butchering, alchemy and oils, and Ciri found herself unexpectedly relaxing. In a way, this felt more like one of Vesemir’s quizzes than an interrogation. The right answers were easy, and brought back simpler times, full of camp fires and warm bedrolls, strong stone walls and fierce training, long tales full of laughter and misadventure. Ciri found herself grateful, however, for Emhyr’s tutelage as well -- for those lists of names, dates, and places that had once been so tedious to memorize.

“So,” Frederic leaned forward a bit. “I’m guessing you’re not exactly spending your days as a villager’s bride.”

“Not really, no,” Ciri said wryly. “A simple life was never in the cards for me, apparently. No family, which meant no dowry. I had to cut my own path.”

“And what path would that be? Especially for a woman alone?”

At least her sleepless night had been useful in one way--it had given her more than enough time to come up with a semi-believable story. “All I knew was what Thomas had taught me, so I used it. Started selling monster bits to local alchemists, and herbs too dangerous for village herbalists to obtain. Then I lucked into a few connections that got me in contact with a couple of courts in Benadir and Dahomey.” Both were distant, short-lived countries of this era. Nilfgaard would swallow them within a few decades. “I’ve found that mages and healers will pay extraordinarily well for rare spell ingredients. So now I sell to them--and if the monster’s too dangerous to go after myself, I offer my expertise to hunting parties.”

“I’m surprised that we haven’t heard of you before,” Frederic said.

Ciri shrugged. “After Thomas … was gone, it wasn’t like I knew where to find other witchers. Or any reason to think they’d want to help me, even if I did. I’ve done very well for myself, but I’m still just a supplier--my clients send servants or apprentices to collect their goods, they don’t come to me themselves. I’d be surprised if any of them even knew my name.” Claiming obscurity might not stop the resident mages from checking on her story, but it would at least slow them down. Megascopes, if she’d calculated correctly, were only now being developed. Yennefer said they were still room-sized and very complex to move during most of her early training, so Ciri rather doubted that Kaer Morhen had one.

“Hrm, I suppose.” Frederic regarded her for a moment. “Do you have children, then? A husband?”

“Is this the part where I should tell you I have an extremely important husband, who comes with a well-connected and armed set of in-laws? All of whom who will search for me if I don’t return?” Ciri said. She smiled at Frederic, inviting him to share the joke. “I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint. No husband, no children. Most men aren’t looking for a wife who travels constantly. Especially one who disappears into the wilds and butchers monsters for a living.”

Frederic raised a skeptical eyebrow. “A woman who looks like you do? I find that hard to believe.”

“Is that an offer?” Ciri teased, grinning as the old witcher harrumphed.

“Careful there with that, young lady. I think there are quite a few younger bucks about that might just prove you wrong.”

“Oh, I’ve had proposals,” Ciri said, her smile fading. “Just not the kind I wanted to accept.” She gave an offhand shrug. Once it had hurt to know that, no matter what she did or where she went, she could never have anything resembling a normal life. But she’d come to terms with it over the years--had come through the fire and into her own. “Besides which, I’m not likely to meet many new people as long as I’m stuck in here. If you don’t mind me asking, what exactly is the plan?”

“Right now?” Frederic stretched, inhaling, then looked to the window. “How does breakfast in the mess hall sound?”

It wasn’t necessarily a guarantee that they wouldn’t try to kill her and dump her body in the moat afterwards, but it was a great deal better than the scenario she’d expected -- which was being kept prisoner here, then blindfolded and left in some village once she’d recovered. Perhaps, Ciri thought, she’d managed to come out of this with an ally of sorts. And she’d get out of this room, which was getting more confining by the minute. “Really good -- especially if there’s more of that celandine tea.”

“Well now.” The witcher heaved himself up out of the chair. “I think we can manage that.”


	3. Chapter 3

Breakfast, as it turned out, was in the main hall. Which made sense, but it also meant she had to face another set of narrow winding stairs to get there. 

Thankfully Frederic solved that problem in short order. The witcher on guard outside her door hadn’t protested when Frederic told him that he was escorting her downstairs -- proof enough of the older witcher’s authority within Kaer Morhen. But he wasn’t nearly so sanguine when Frederic eyed her splinted leg, eyed the stairs, and asked, “Are we going to do this the hard way or the easy way?”

Leaning against the wall with one hand, Ciri eyed the steep, narrow flight. “I don’t know. Does the easy way involve rolling me down the stairs and seeing how well I bounce?”

Frederic snorted. “I think you’ve done enough damage to yourself without us adding to it. No, the easy way involves being carried down.” He tilted his head, adding wryly, “Assuming you’ll trust an old man not to drop you.”

At that, her guard stirred, frowning at Ciri and the grip she had on the older witcher’s arm. “Master Frederic--perhaps you shouldn’t ...”

Frederic levelled an unimpressed look at the other man. “What exactly do think is going to happen? You think I’m going to end up with fangs in my neck if I carry her down a few stairs?” He snorted. “If you’re that afraid of a little slip of a girl, you can watch my back on the way down, Gregor.”

“Master Rennes said--”

“Rennes can plough a nekker. Out of my way, son; you’re between us and the bacon.”

Gregor opened his mouth, closed it, then settled for a witcher’s trademark glower. Hard-pressed to keep the smile off her face, Ciri slung her arm around Frederic’s shoulders. Seven -- this meant there were at least seven witchers here, more than she’d even heard of in one place before. It shouldn’t have delighted her so; she knew there were more of them in this era, and given the chill in the air it was possible that most of the school’s witchers had retreated to the keep for the winter. Still, seven!

Frederic might be remarkably old for a witcher, but his unnatural strength didn’t seem to have suffered. Stooping, he scooped an arm under her knees and another around her back, and picked her up without any visible effort. The stairwell, fortunately, was wide enough to admit them without clunking either her head or aching leg. Gregor trailed along afterwards, unhappily.

“Thomas once said he could smell bacon from a mile away,” Ciri said. Imperial dignity be damned; this brought back far too many memories -- she’d been carried off the training grounds on more than one occasion, all coltish limbs and bruises. And maybe it was the sleepless night, but this, from the feel of the rough leather jerkin to the unyielding steel of the arms underneath, it all -- felt so safe. 

Ciri shook her head, trying to place where they were in the fortress. It was hard to tell from the inside, but the orientation seemed different that any of the stairs she remembered. This must be one of the towers that’d collapsed, sometime in the intervening century. 

“A bald-faced lie,” Frederic said, angling her around a sharp curve of the stairway walls. “Or else he was nose-blind. It’s three miles, at least.” 

Ciri snorted. “Maybe he was just being modes--” then Frederic shoved open a door with his foot, and stepped out into the chilly mid-morning breeze, and an open courtyard. 

The last of her doubts vanished; this truly was Kaer Morhen. Ciri could see the same distinctive upper terrace and wide walkways, the same archway leading to a ramp, the stables, and the massive portcullis that guarded the entrance. But now -- it hadn’t even been like this when she was a child. Banners lifted in the breeze. The walls were perfect, seemingly impenetrable, the stones matching granite rather than patched with rubble. Everything was just… clean, from the scrubbed brass torch fittings to the flagstones still dusted with frost wherever the sun hadn’t reached. She hadn’t even known there *were* flagstones here, had always just assumed the grounds were nothing but packed earth and straggly weeds. The piles of loose rock she’d scrabbled across were well-tended beehives in this time, currently wrapped in woolen blankets and oilcloth for warmth; empty corners had become covered wooden stables.

And… Kaer Morhen was… it was crowded. _Alive,_ like the very soul of the castle had been gone all this time, but she hadn’t ever known it was missing until now. Ciri couldn’t help but stare: there were packs of young boys, dozens of them, whacking away at each other or training dummies with wooden swords, and smaller groups of older witchers sparring at full speed with live steel. Others hauled water or wood, or leaned against the walls. There was even a forge in the far corner, a soot-smeared blacksmith banging away at a dented breastplate, wielding a hammer that most men likely couldn’t lift. 

Then, as witcher senses picked up on their arrival, silence began to spread. The courtyard’s occupants turned to look at their little group, and Ciri discovered that being under the scrutiny of so many pairs of golden eyes was a uniquely uncomfortable sensation. The expressions she could read ranged from wary to curious, while the younger boys were openly fascinated by their appearance. 

Still holding her, Frederic huffed. “You’d think no one here had ever seen a woman before,” he said, loud enough to carry, as he started for the main doors of the keep. Gregor kept pace one step behind. 

The nearest witcher--apparently an instructor--gave the little procession an unimpressed glance, then barked at his charges, “What the fuck are you all doing? You going to let something get the drop on you any time a skirt flounces by? One hundred more strikes, each hand!” As the boys scrambled back to their drills, he turned, looking Ciri up and down. Or side to side, rather, with the way she was being carried. “Got suckered again by a pretty face, eh, Frederic? Rennes isn’t going to like that she’s out.” 

“If I wanted to listen to an asshole, Marcin, I’d feed a barrel of beans to Hyrum,” Frederic retorted and marched on, ignoring both Marcin’s glower and the distant ‘I take umbrage, sir!’ that floated from somewhere across the courtyard.

Marcin must have been a veteran witcher, although it was difficult to determine his age. He had only a short-cropped fringe of hair left on a badly scarred scalp, and the scars didn’t stop there. They pulled down across his face, twisting deep furrows that carved into cheeks and nose, leaving one eye white and blind. Underneath all the twisted runnels, though, he looked like sheer power, visibly corded with muscle. 

“Err - I can walk --” Ciri started, finally regaining her voice. Dignity demanded that she meet all these unknown, and potentially very dangerous, forces on her feet. Wonder and sentiment both tempted her to linger, because this was nothing like the Kaer Morhen she had known. She’d lived here for years, and she still couldn’t have imagined a… a *community* like this. Emhyr would have urged her to slow down, to take note of men and armaments, for there had to be twenty witchers here and many more in training -- quite literally an army if properly deployed, a force to strike terror into any ruler with a grain of sense. 

"Porridge first, then pride. Hear that, boy?" Frederic barked at a young witcher as they passed. The boy, perhaps fifteen and willowy, labored under the burden of a yoke from which hung an overlarge pair of sloshing buckets, one of which seemed perilously close to slipping off the haft as the boy stared. His green-gold, back-reflective eyes seemed startlingly out of place on so young a face. "Get the door -- and a crutch, then bring some celandine tea and soft boots. Door first, pup! You have fiend dung for brains?"

In a display of agility that Ciri found herself envying, the teenager managed to both steady his burden and hurry ahead to the big double doors. He pushed one open for them; it swung noiselessly, on oiled and balanced hinges. 

The great hall of Kaer Morhen was destined to become a dim, cavernous space, murals fading, its only tenants the pigeons that came to nest in its high rafters. And for an instant, Ciri could almost see it, hollow like a wraith -- before the noise and warmth and _light_ washed over her. Magelamps cast a constant, multi-hued glow over everything, flames built high enough to roast entire cattle roared in the hearths, and long tables piled with neatly stacked dishes stretched the entire length of the available floor space. There had to be seating for three hundred or more here, although just a scattered few groups of men were still breakfasting heartily. Pairs of swords, silver and steel -- often accompanied by javelins or unstrung bows -- leaned up against racks behind them, near to hand. 

More boys swept the floors, or scurried back and forth to the kitchens laden with earthenware. But not just boys--there were others as well, men and women both, busily directing the cleaning efforts or cutting up game and root vegetables for the next meal. Castle staff? Villagers? Or at least Ciri assumed they might be villagers; she hadn’t spotted any armor or weapons beyond belt knives, and -- 

“Ho there, what have you lucked into this time, Frederic?” A middle-aged woman paused, her arms full of a basket of potatoes. She smiled at Ciri. “I haven’t seen you before. Did you come in with the last caravan?” 

Caravans? Ciri glanced at Frederic, unsure of what she should say, and the older witcher handily intercepted the question. “Teleport spell gone awry, actually,” he said smoothly, making his way to the nearest table. “Not sure how it happened, though I’m sure Sebastian was involved somehow.”

“Why am I not surprised?” The woman shook her head, clicking her tongue in disapproval. “Don’t worry, dear--Frederic’s a rogue, but he won’t do anything untoward.”

“Careful there, Anna. She might actually believe you, and then where will I be?” Frederic said, lowering Ciri to her feet, close enough to the end of the nearest bench so that she could sit down without jarring anything too badly. “Gregor, stop lurking and make yourself useful--go grab us a couple bowls of whatever’s on the fire.” He swung a leg over and sat down, pulling a nearby trencher of bread within easy reach and nodding at the other occupants of the table. “Marrok, Simon.” 

Ciri mechanically took the hunk of dark bread Frederic handed her, still a bit dazed. “This is … I mean, I never thought I’d see…” she trailed off. What did you say when faced with the impossible?

“Never thought you’d see this many witchers in one place?” one of her new table-companions remarked. He grinned, his expression open and affable. “Not too many outsiders do. Welcome to Kaer Morhen.” Like everyone else here, some of his turns of phrase were archaic, his accent a little strange.

The other witcher, Marrok, was less welcoming, instead eyeing Ciri with a wary kind of interest. “This the woman the boys are babbling about? The one who hunts monsters?” he asked Frederic. He was dark-complexioned, with the swarthy, broad features of the Koviri coast, and much younger than Frederic. If Ciri had to guess, both he and Simon were closer to Eskel or Geralt’s age--the Geralt of her time, that was. 

“Mn. Need more work to do, if they can’t stop running their traps,” Frederic groused, deftly flipping a small dagger from his belt, as if it were merely an extension of his hand -- _he has four hundred years of experience with bladework, Ciri, you’re not going to learn this in a day_ \-- and reaching for the pot of chopped bacon. “This is Falka.”

“You’re slow, Frederic. The news has gone to the pass and back an hour ago,” Simon pointed out.

“This a witcher school or a gossip society? Can’t tell, most days,” Frederic muttered to himself, digging out a healthy lump of rendered meat and lard, and spreading it over his bread. 

“And yes, I hunt monsters. Mainly graviers, necrophages, kikimores -- the occasional forktail or griffon. A slyzard, once,” Ciri said, answering Marrok’s question and taking both pot and dagger when they were offered. Tallow on fresh bread, in place of butter - the court would’ve been scandalized. They didn’t know what they were missing. Gregor came back, unceremoniously plunking down a large bowl of barley porridge in front of each of them before taking his own seat. He didn’t look happy to see a knife in her hand, but didn’t say anything. Ciri smiled at him regardless--dour witchers were certainly nothing she couldn’t handle. “Thank you, Gregor.” 

“Slyzard, huh?” Marrok said, refilling the earthenware flagons and pushing one over to her. Small ale or watered beer, by the pale color. “Hardly imagine a slip of a lass parrying off a slyzard’s tail-strike.” 

“I don’t. I’m assuming you don’t either, given that you’re still alive.” Ciri smeared a generous amount of bacon and lard on her own bread. Before Gregor could pitch a fit, she flipped the knife over, one-handed, and offered it back to Frederic, hilt first. He took it, swiping the blade across a nearby cloth without comment while she dug into the food. 

“Hah! Hear that, Marrok?” Simon slapped his back. “Knows better than you did, that first decade out. Still got the scars?”

“They’re supposed to have stiffer tails at that size!”

Ciri ate, while they argued about the tendons and cartilage that virtually guaranteed a slyzard would whip its tailspike right into your back if you tried to redirect the blow. The bread was chewy and dense but very good, obviously freshly baked, savory with the fat and salt-cured meat. The porridge was surprisingly good too, with egg and honey mixed into it, and pine nuts and dried berries hiding underneath the surface. Hunger added its own spice -- her stomach had felt like it was rubbing against her backbone for most of the night, despite the cold meal she’d been brought. 

If this food was meant for the younger boys as well, the mildly mutagenic herbs and fungi hadn’t been added to it yet, Ciri noticed. She’d only been given small doses, and only for a few years, but she recalled the taste well enough. 

“We’ll have to take you out on a hunt, once you’re well enough to strap on snowshoes,” Simon finally said, having apparently won the argument. “We start getting a lot of nekkers coming down from the caves to raid caravans during the winter.”

“I’d love that,” Ciri said. Fighting alongside Geralt and the others had always been such a thrill -- except, she hadn’t planned to be here that long, had she? “So you get traders here? Is that where Anna and the others are from, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Hn? No, we travel out to meet the caravans. The staff lives here, or in the outbuildings. Anna’s family has been keeping us in line for, oh, generations. What, Marrok? Why are you looking at me like -- oh please, she’s not blind. If she hasn’t figured out that we don’t exactly maintain two fucking fortresses on the spare time of eighty goddamn witchers--”

Ciri choked on her bread, and reached for the smallbeer. She threw it back, eyes watering, as she coughed. Which only set up a new cascade of sharp-edged aches from her ribs, and she wrapped her arms around her chest, trying to control her breathing. “...eighty?” she finally wheezed. “There are that many witchers here?” Holy sun above--she’d never realized the School of the Wolf had ever fielded that many! What kind of state was the world in, outside these walls, that eighty active witchers--from just one school, at that--could all be needed on the Path? 

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Frederic watching her, his own expression carefully neutral. Marrok and Gregor were scowling at Simon, who seemed cheerfully oblivious. “Well, almost never that many are here all at once,” he said. “Even in the winter, there’s always a few on the Path. But we’ve got a pretty good number here already; it’s always better to make it in before the snow closes off the pass.”

“You’re surprised by that?” Frederic asked. “Thought your Thomas told you all about Kaer Morhen.”

Ciri shook her head, taking the time to regain her breath before she replied. For all of Frederic’s friendliness, she knew he wouldn’t choose her over the welfare of Kaer Morhen or its inhabitants. If she proved to be a threat, Ciri was sure he would be just as ruthless as Vesemir would have been in dealing with it. “He mentioned Kaer Morhen, and of course I knew there were other witchers. But he never said how many there were, and wouldn’t tell me anything else about the school. Not even where it was.” She gave them a rueful shrug. “I guess I’d just assumed … well, I’m not sure what I assumed. I certainly never imagined anything like *this*.” She waved a hand at their surroundings--the staff, the crackling hearth, the small groups of witchers seated nearby--in illustration.

Frowning, Marrok began to ask another question--only to be interrupted as the trainee from earlier trotted up again. This time he bore an awkward armful of supplies--a wooden crutch, a pair of soft-soled shoes, and a steaming pot of tea. “Master Frederic, here are the supplies you asked for,” he announced.

“Here, let me take that,” Frederic said, deftly relieving the boy of first the teapot, then his other burdens. “Seems about the right size, too--good eye. Is Sebastian up yet?” 

“I’m not sure, sir,” the boy said. “I’ve not seen him yet today. Did you need me to fetch him?”

“No, be off with you. I’ll drag him out of his lair myself if I need him.” The boy nodded, darting off, and Frederic pushed the teapot in front of Ciri. “Drink that down--it’ll help with your ribs, at least.” He leaned the crutch against the table, and glanced over the shoes. They were flexible, just ankle-high, furred on the inside, and the soles were stitched with cordage for a better grip. “These aren’t thick enough to get you far outside, but you should be fine inside the castle with ‘em.”

“Thanks,” Ciri said, pouring herself a generous cup of tea. “I--”

“Frederic!” Rennes’ roar could be heard through the entire hall as the main door was flung open. “Fiends take you--I said to interrogate the woman, not woo her! What in all the ploughing hells are you *doing*?” The one-armed witcher stormed down the length of the hall, the snarl on his lips pretty much the equivalent of a mask of fury for anyone who wasn’t a witcher.

“Interrogating. Over breakfast.” Frederic sipped his beer, nonchalant. “Unless you were planning on starving her into submission, Rennes? Hasn’t been fed properly, clear to see.” Ciri glanced guiltily at her bowl, which she’d emptied of its witcher-sized portion. She couldn’t usually keep up with Geralt or the others, not even close, but her power had its own high energy demands if she used it a great deal. Apparently, an accidental and malevolent-magic-driven jump to the past counted as ‘a great deal.’ 

“Look, I’m not a danger to Kaer Morhen or anyone in it,” Ciri put in, exasperated at Rennes’ constant assumptions otherwise. The fact that she _could_ open a portal that would level most castles didn’t mean she _would._ “And I’ll do everything in my power to ensure that stays true; even take an oath, if you like. I’m grateful for your rescue, I truly am. But if you need me to leave, I’ll take a blindfold and a horse; you can escort me out to one of these caravans. Problem solved.” She knew the passes and the faint ridgeline trails that led to the keep perfectly well, but at least in her own time, the exact location of Kaer Morhen had been a closely-guarded secret. 

Rennes scowled, hooking his thumb in his belt and looking very much like he wanted to take her up on the offer. 

“Not gonna see a crippled woman left with a merchant band,” Simon said, brow furrowed. 

Gregor spoke unexpectedly. “Her clothes and a sword will both make her a tempting target,” he pointed out, and while Ciri had pretty much figured that out for herself, it also told her something about the state of nearby kingdoms if the witchers thought so, as well. 

“Won’t get a horse over the third pass now, anyway,” said a new voice, one that raised a shiver straight up Ciri’s spine, made her heart clench. She turned slowly, as if underwater, unable to draw a full breath. 

He must have come in by one of the other entrances -- leathers wet with snowmelt and sweat, his tread deliberate, in that way that witchers moved when they’d just been through an ordeal that should have killed any normal human, twice over. He had his shoulder under the arm of a man, another witcher, supporting most of his weight. 

“Saw an avalanche on our way in. Valleys were foundering-deep in snow, even before that. Think we might be the last ones in this season,” said Vesemir. A hundred years would barely touch him. Perhaps his hair was a little thicker, a little darker, his body a little harder. He had one or two fewer scars now. But it was Vesemir. Her Vesemir. 

Ciri grabbed at her mug and took a hasty swallow of the hot tea, in the hopes that the burn might keep her from tears. She couldn’t make herself look away from Vesemir, though, drinking in the sight of him, healthy and whole and *alive*. He tugged his companion forward, settling him on a nearby bench. The other witcher, she saw, was in a bad way: thin to the point of being gaunt, nothing more than wasted muscle over bone, cheeks hollowed. His eyes were sunken and shadowed, the veins on his face and neck dark and prominent; the telltale signs of prolonged use of potions and decoctions, enough to build up toxins that even a witcher’s metabolism couldn’t shake. Blood, old and dark, stained what was left of his leathers which, even for a witcher, were too thin for the cold this far north.

Simon whistled, already patting through his pouches. “Aubry, man. Good to see you.” He produced a vial of dark reddish liquid, then another of very pale gold -- swallow and white honey. Simon started to hand them over, then hesitated as Vesemir subtly shook his head. 

Gregor slid the big trencher of bread over to the newcomer, wordlessly collected another two clean bowls from the stack, and went back for more porridge. Frederic cast Rennes a significant look. 

Rennes pinched the bridge of his nose with his good left hand. 

Vesemir missed nothing as he stepped over the bench, sitting close enough to subtly support Aubry. “Sounds like it’s been an eventful winter already.” He started stripping off his gauntlets, unsealing worn leather from skin starting with the thumb, every motion intensely familiar. “Heard you’re Falka? I’m Vesemir.”

_I know._ Ciri nodded mutely, reaching out to take his hand across the table when he offered it. Even the placement of rough sword calluses was the same, that hard-edged, careful grip. The cold seemed to cling to him, like it’d seeped down into his bones. An empress did not cry. Especially not while sitting across from a strange witcher with one foot in the grave. “Good to meet you,” she said, keeping the quaver out of her voice with an effort of will that Emhyr would have been proud of. “Anything -- I can do to help?”

Vesemir smiled a little. “Looks worse than it is--” which was a blatant lie if she ever heard one, “--and I’m sure that just sitting near a lovely young lady will do him wonders, never fear. You shouldn’t be on that leg, anyway.” The bowls of porridge arrived; Vesemir ignored his own in favor of emptying the entire pot of tallow into Aubry’s dish.

Aubry’s hand shook as he picked up the spoon -- and that was something Ciri had never seen, although she’d witnessed both Eskel and Geralt poison themselves pretty badly before. The injured witcher’s gaze was feral and intense as he looked her over, like something operating on pure instinct dwelt in the back-reflection of those eyes, something that raised the fine hairs on the back of Ciri’s neck. Vesemir gave him a subtle nudge. Slowly at first, Aubry started to eat. 

“What--” Ciri closed her mouth, tried to look at this analytically. She didn’t have a witcher’s ability to tell one blood spatter from another, to know at a glance how a blow had been struck and by what. But the sheer size of the rents in Aubry’s armor, all in parallel except for a curved one -- something with a clawed hand and thumb, then, not a draconid or griffon. Manticore? Not big enough, except rarely. “A fiend?” 

“Chort.” The answer was only just over a whisper, from a dry throat, spoken between increasingly rapid bites. “Five weeks ago.”

Rennes turned away. “I’ll get Sebastian,” he said flatly, and left.

Five weeks. He must’ve been moving the entire time; with food and rest, a witcher should have been able to heal nearly anything in that span. So it hadn’t been safe to rest, either because of the nature of the wounds he’d taken, or something else. Ciri poured the remainder of her hot tea into another ceramic flagon, and scooted it over in front of the injured witcher -- Aubry -- watching Vesemir for any sign that it wouldn’t be helpful. 

Vesemir intercepted the tea, inhaled the scent, and then gave her a slight nod of approbation, like when she’d gotten a particular sword grip exactly right. Ciri swallowed against a lump in her throat as Vesemir pressed the flagon into Aubry’s off-hand. “Drink,” he ordered. The injured witcher didn’t argue. He downed the entire mug, throat working with long swallows like he couldn’t even feel the heat, before diving into the food again with renewed determination.

“A chort, by yourself? Fuck--you’re lucky you’re still in one piece,” Simon remarked, impressed. The casual tone of his voice couldn’t hide his concern completely, however. “You take the fucker’s head?”

Aubry nodded, and gave a one-shouldered shrug. “For all the good it did me,” he said hoarsely, pausing between mouthfuls. “Contract went to shit. Local lord refused to pay out.” 

Frederic and Vesemir both straightened at that, eyes narrowing. Marrok growled a little under his breath, even as Frederic asked, “Which fief?”

Aubry paused, obviously having a hard time focusing. “... Radyr. North and west of Carraigh.”

Frederic and Vesemir exchanged a look. “We’ll tell Rennes, take care of it,” Frederic said grimly.

“Take care of it?” Ciri asked. Vesemir looked at Frederic, obviously deferring to the other witcher on the answer.

“Someone reneges on a witcher contract, it costs them,” Frederic said after a moment, watching her closely. “Can’t let that slide -- bad for the school, and bad for other witchers on the Path, if folk get the idea that we can be cheated. Radyr’s lord will soon find that no witchers will be taking contracts there. Rennes will see to that. No monster hunts, no caravan guards, no curse-breaking. Not until he pays what’s owed.”

“Hunh.” Ciri sat back a bit, thinking about it. It was a harsh response, but she couldn’t say it wasn’t warranted. Melitele knew she’d dealt with more than her fair share of nobles who thought they were above paying their debts--and Geralt had ended up with the short end of the stick more than once, with no coin to show for his work and no School of the Wolf to back him up. “Seems fair, I guess. Though I do feel sorry for the local villagers.” 

Marrok shrugged. “Can’t be everywhere,” he said bluntly. “There aren’t enough of us as it is. You think we should let our brothers starve on the Path because some noble can’t be bothered to pay out some coin?”

“Of course not,” Ciri said, although it’d probably been a rhetorical question. In modern day Nilfgaard, such disputes would likely have been solved with courts and imperial marshals -- there was a published list of lawful prices on some monsters. While the witchers sometimes took less, they at least had a recourse for nonpayment other than slaughtering the damn village. Which, given the eight living witchers of the cat school she knew about who sometimes crossed her borders, was a ploughing good thing. 

But Ciri also knew that an embargo tightened the screws on those least able to compensate for it, and depriving an entire region of witchers might be just as bad as stopping trade. Wars could sometimes be kinder. Would Geralt have turned down a five-florin contract to slay a rimewraith that was devouring peasant babies, if the distant lord of the manor had cheated him? Maybe he would, if the alternative was to drive himself as far and as hard as Aubry obviously had, in order to reach safety. Ciri wished dearly that she could ask him. 

If there were one thing she’d learned from Geralt’s stories, though, it was that every monster hunt was more complex than it seemed at first glance. There was certainly something else going on here. 

“Fucking right,” said Simon, in emphasis, and went to get another pot of chopped bacon and drippings from a nearby table. “Hey, you want to drop by our room, you’re welcome anytime,” he called back over his shoulder. “Level over this one, second corridor, door’s got a big dent in the upper right. Leave a note if we’re not there.”

Ciri blinked, jolted from her thoughts. She looked to Marrok, who rolled his eyes at Simon’s retreating back, then, catching her stare, gave her an easy shrug. _Drop by for--wait. What?_ That was either the most casual invitation to sleep with someone she’d ever received, or -- wait, she actually knew that room. It was tiny; were Marrok and Simon sharing a bed? Had they just--

“Figures. That boy’s never been one to wait around,” Vesemir remarked with a snort, beginning to unlace his outer jerkin. “So. Who’s missing?”

“Cyryl, for one,” Marrok said, after a momentary pause. 

The injured witcher’s spoon scraped the bottom of his bowl. Vesemir slid the second dish of porridge over. Aubry didn’t hesitate, digging in with just as much eagerness as he had attacked the first. “Mn. Third year gone for him,” Vesemir said.

Marrok just nodded. 

Frederic looked over to Ciri. His gaze was sharply incisive, though his tone seemed casual enough. “Well, now that you’re fed, want to go to the courtyard, watch some of the practice bladework? Even if you can’t show us what you can do, you can at least point out the moves you’ve been taught.”

“I--” Ciri followed Vesemir’s glance, and saw the alchemist, Sebastian, hurrying up the stairs with a medical satchel hanging off one shoulder and other, more esoteric mage-tools in his arms. Those stairs had once led to laboratories and chambers forbidden to Ciri, although she’d snuck down there often enough as a child to gaze in wonder at the dusty jars of preserved eyeballs and other, stranger things. Mysteries upon mysteries. Still, as much as she wanted to learn how to deal with injuries like this -- what if this happened to one of her witchers? -- if it was a choice between being hauled back up to that tiny room for another round of questioning or sitting outside watching witchers spar, she knew which she would pick. “Why not? Though if you could spare a cloak, it would be appreciated.”


	4. Chapter 4

Once outside, Frederic settled Ciri on a crate near the heat of the forge. He sat with them for a short time, but excused himself with a vague explanation about certain heads that needed banging together, leaving her under Gregor’s watchful eye. Ciri thought it far more likely he was going in to assist with whatever they didn’t want her seeing inside the main hall. Which was fine -- as curious as she might be about that, at least this way she could freely observe the training taking place.

And it was well worth watching. Ciri was familiar enough with group combat exercises, had watched the Imperial Guard spar and seasoned mercenaries train. But this, it was … she had no good way to describe it. A ballet in steel, perhaps? But even if she had been able to find a troupe this large, they still could not have managed even a fraction of the grace and speed on display in the courtyard in front of her.

The younger boys had moved to a different--and very familiar--kind of training, balancing on thin platforms along the wall while they dodged massive, swinging logs. But while she’d had the entire platform to range over, these boys had to deal with other small bodies in their way. They were also younger than she’d been. The difference that a few years and a few inches of reach made was obvious; their balance was good, and for the most part they avoided being knocked around -- or off -- the wall by their heavy targets or each other. But their footwork was still sloppy, and they hadn’t yet graduated to using blindfolds. Or perhaps that had been Vesemir’s special addition to the usual training regimen? Not that what they were doing was easy by any means -- despite the winter air, the trainees were drenched in sweat, faces twisted into masks of concentration as the instructors drilled them mercilessly.

In contrast, the adult and teenaged witchers sparring below the wall were a quicksilver dance of lethal skill as they traded blows almost too fast to see. Bundled up in a woolen cloak, Ciri watched as they worked, noting the differences in style and weaponry. All wielded swords, but some had heavier blades, relying on brute strength to power through their opponent’s defenses. Even these fighters were frighteningly fast and incredibly agile by any human standards. At times it seemed like the entire courtyard was consumed in a raging battle, here one man holding two at bay, there a swirl of five fighters, blades flashing, ringing in the sharp chill sunlight before the knots broke apart, witchers stepping back to catch their breath or find new partners.

Other witchers had lighter, thinner blades, more akin to her own Zirael. Those witchers relied to great effect on speed, launching precise and deadly strikes that slower opponents found themselves hard-pressed to match. Strikes that Ciri herself would be hard-pressed to match, come to think of it -- sparring Geralt was still a serious challenge, even with her abilities. Often it seemed like he was moving before she even knew she planned to teleport; perhaps he’d learned to read his opponent here, in tests of skill like this.

There was a pair on the near side of the courtyard who were particularly well-matched: both men were fast, powerful fighters who knew their strengths and used them well. “Pivot,” Ciri murmured, watching the two witchers clash, break apart, then close again. “Backslash, low parry on that--nice. Overhand to the right, riposte …” she winced as one of the fighters over-extended slightly, his elbow dropping. His opponent saw the opening and went for it, driving forward into a short, vicious thrust--only to pull short with well-controlled skill, the point just nudging the armpit seam between pauldron and cuirass. Both men froze. Then the victor smirked, said something she was too far away to hear, and smacked the flat of his blade lightly into the other man’s side. Breaking apart, they squared off and started again.

Gregor was watching her more than the men below, she knew, not even bothering to pretend otherwise. “You know your sword work,” he remarked. “Your foster-father teach you how to fight?”

Ciri nodded. “Thomas? Yes--he was pretty relentless.” She smiled, remembering Vesemir and Geralt both. With only a single pupil for both of them to focus on, her skills had certainly benefited from the extra attention, even if she hadn’t appreciated it at the time. “Did you know him?” she asked, deciding to test the waters and see if her story was holding up.

There was a shout from the far end of the courtyard--a brief scuffle between two trainees. Gregor glanced over, but their instructor was already in the middle of the nascent fight, manhandling them into separate directions. “Don’t think so. Not that I remember, anyway. What did he look like?”

“Well, he was about your height,” Ciri said, looking Gregor over. He was relatively young, with dark brown hair devoid of gray--most likely around sixty years old, if she had to guess. His face was free of visible scars, unusual in a witcher of any age. But his forearms were latticed with an odd network of burn marks, and his hands, calloused and scarred, were evidence enough that he had spent his fair share of time on the Path. “Tended to mix fighting styles, whenever the mood struck him. Had a scar over his left eye too, but it went farther up. Pale hair; sometimes wore it longer than mine. Older than you, I think; it was hard to tell. Favored Igni.”

Gregor shook his head, then slanted her a look. “What?” said Ciri.

“Well,” Gregor leaned back against the wall. “It’s just… it’d be unusual to even want to train someone who can’t -- I mean, most wouldn’t have the patience for--well.” He rubbed the back of his head, ruffling up his hair. “Do you suppose you might have been related?”

Ciri arched a brow. “Hate to be the one to break it to you, but you do know witchers are infertile, right?”

Gregor looked up, as if asking for patience. “He still could’ve been your grand… something. Granduncle, or even great-granduncle.”

“Possible, I suppose,” said Ciri. Scholars had spent decades mapping out Laura Dorren’s line, down to the least bastard offshoot. If there’d been a son given over to witchers anywhere in there, she’d know about it. Still, she imagined that the average peasant or small-time merchant wouldn’t have access to such information about their own family trees. “Thomas didn’t know much about where he came from, or who he’d been related to. But he was the best father any child could hope for.”

“Mn.” They were silent for a time, watching the ebb and flow of mock battles being fought and refought before them. For all their furious speed, the combatants seemed to keep within invisible boundary lines, never getting too close to the activity around the forge or the stream of people carrying supplies, although Ciri witnessed a few close calls.

Adult witchers filtered continuously from the sidelines to the matches and back again, where they pulled off their light training armor and talked or wrestled or just rested in the sun, all bronzed skin and pale scars. New scars, too -- every last man had pinkish marks laid down over the older ones. One blond witcher looked as if he’d been on the wrong end of a bullwhip for at least thirty lashes; another as if he’d literally had a chunk bitten out of the muscle of his flank.

The golden-eyed teenagers -- there were maybe a dozen here now, ranging in apparent age from perhaps fourteen to twenty -- were pressed harder, allowed little time between matches. Four of them had squared off against opponents of similar age, under the constant correction of older witchers. The rest sparred their elders directly.

“He teach you any signs?”

Ciri pulled a face. “He tried. I was never really able to pick up the knack--not enough magic in me, I guess.” In actuality, it had been because she’d had too much ability, as Yennefer had explained later. She’d apparently been drawing enough magic to swamp any sign she tried to cast, and even to twist spells awry during her later lessons under Yen and Nenneke. Yennefer had been convinced Ciri would be a powerful sorceress indeed with more training -- but once again, destiny had robbed her of that possibility.

A new group of witchers were heading out through the main gate--in contrast to the others, these were wearing heavy cloaks and boots, and had unstrung bows and quivers slung across their backs, over their swords. Two were hauling empty sledges. “A hunting party?” Ciri asked, tilting her head in their direction.

Gregor nodded. “Heading out to check the traplines. They’ll probably look for deer or mountain goats as well. Always a good idea to bring in extra meat when you can, make sure the supplies laid in for winter last. We’ve had some bad ones before.”

“I can imagine.” The Blue Mountains had some pretty unforgiving weather, especially in winter. She’d never thought about it before, but with little arable land nearby, keeping a castle full of adult witchers and growing boys well-supplied with food was undoubtedly a major undertaking. Kaer Morhen probably relied heavily on the caravans Anna had mentioned to bring in grain and produce, as well as other supplies.

And if those caravans were interrupted, or blocked … what if someone had gone out of their way to do so, before the massacre? Instincts born of nine years of imperial politics whispered that it was not only possible, but very likely. How else could a group of untrained, poorly armed peasants, even backed by mages and mercenaries, manage to penetrate a well-maintained fortress and slaughter a force of well-armed, veteran witchers? But if the local barons had gone out of their way to ensure that the school had been weakened, slowly starved of supplies, so that the more experienced and capable witchers stayed away out of simple necessity … suddenly the massacre made a lot more sense. A decimated School of the Wolf wouldn’t be able to enforce embargoes, or challenge the authority of kings or nobles. Would, in fact, be reduced to what she remembered; a scant handful of witchers struggling to get by, accepting contracts on whatever terms those same nobles chose to offer and taking whatever they deigned to pay.

Kaer Morhen’s survival depended on supply lines. Given the mountains, that would mean… what? A sixteen-mile tunnel? Or... installing a stable and lockable portal, which was a virtual impossibility for even modern mages--but child’s play for her.

Shit. If she hadn’t already tampered with history just by being here, then setting up a portal certainly would. There was no way she could do something like that in secret--every witcher medallion in the keep would alert its owner to a flare of magic that large. And how would she explain it to the residents in any case? _Oh yes, I just tripped over this stone in your basement, and suddenly a portal sprang up! Who knew?_

Ciri shook her head, resolved to put the notion out of her mind, and tried to distract herself by watching groups of boys climbing like squirrels down the rough log wall. They hurried under the sharp eye of several instructors, rushing to take up their wooden swords and start in on the training dummies again. That made room on the wall for the very smallest boys, the ones who’d been sweeping the main hall or peeling potatoes this morning. Ciri was relieved, at least, to see the iron-banded swinging logs being winched aside. Leaping between the platforms had to be hard enough with such short limbs, especially as wooden swords were handed up, and the game became an outright uncoordinated melee.

There were more children now than when she’d passed through earlier, and she tried to pick out Geralt or Eskel from the throng. Their hair was so matted with sweat, it was hard to distinguish them. Eventually she found Eskel, battling one of the younger adult witchers along with two other boys, all of them striving to get their wooden swords past his staff. Their efforts seemed to mainly result in painful-looking tumbles and raps to their knuckles, but they sprang back after each blow, eager for more.

“I’m starting to think that Thomas might not have been that relentless, after all. The older ones have been at this for -- six hours now?” A normal child -- and most adults -- would have been laid flat long before this.

“One of the shorter exercises,” Gregor shrugged, like he wasn’t quite sure what she was talking about. “Tomorrow they have a full day -- should be good, challenging, if the snow comes in. Day after, this plus herblore.”

“Decoction lessons this afternoon? Or butchering?” Asked Ciri, a little wryly, thinking back to the long rambles through the mountains she’d taken with Vesemir or Geralt, or even Lambert, who’d taught her how to sneak up on rabbits or winter ptarmigan and snap their necks, and also how to make rude noises with her armpits. The long days of training had been brutal, yes, but there had been a certain amount of freedom to learn more than just sword and survival.

“Not sure,” Gregor said, thinking. As if on cue, the armorer at the forge glanced up to the sun, then left off the swords he was sharpening. He gave a few resounding bangs to a piece of sheetmetal hanging from the rafters of his forge, and the chaos of the courtyard dissolved into, well, more chaos.

Sparring matches immediately broke apart, and children stepped back from their targets or scrabbled down from the wall. Boys shoved at each other to stow away their practice blades, while older witchers settled down in groups with whetstones and sewing kits to talk and care for their own gear. Ciri caught sight of Anna -- the woman from the great hall -- and several other non-witchers moving through the crowd with baskets, passing out burlap-wrapped parcels. Pemmican, Ciri found, when she was offered one: dried fruit, salted jerky, and tallow pressed into blocks.

“Hey Miss Falka!”

“Witcher lady!”

A small herd of boys came tumbling up the stairs, sweaty, messy, and covered in bruises and scuffs, clutching their own lunch parcels. Klimek and Geralt were among them, Klimek in the lead. They crowded close, elbowing each other for room.

“D’ya wanna come?”

“It’ll be fun!”

“Master Gregor, can she come with?”

Gregor frowned. “Come with where?”

“Tracking,” an eager Geralt put in, cheeks red from the cold. “An’ then Matthias said we get to go fishing!”

“Fishing? In this weather?” Ciri asked, the question aimed at both at the pack of eager faces and Gregor.

“...in a sense. It’s more a chance to let them run around and try to grab fish than anything,” Gregor admitted, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck sheepishly. “Only the adults get to handle the bombs, though.”

“What?” Ciri gasped, placing a hand over her chest dramatically. “Witchers actually enjoying themselves? I’m shocked! Shocked, I say!” Her sally was met with a chorus of giggles, and she grinned. “It sounds like fun. Is it far?”

“Only about a half mile, but-” Gregor gave her splinted leg a pointed look.

“Oh, is that all? I have a crutch now--I should be able to stump along,” Ciri said breezily. She also had a certain interest in seeing if Rennes and the others would let her out past the walls, truth be told. “When are we going?” she asked, directing the question to the boys.

“Now! We can eat on the way. Food’s important, if ya wanna follow a trail,” another boy announced, and suited action to words, stuffing a comically large bite into his mouth, chewing with cheeks crammed full.

“Sounds like a plan,” Ciri smiled regally, and held out her pemmican. “If I could trouble you to put this in a pouch, Master Gregor?”

“Er. I’m not sure--” Gregor twisted to glance back at the main doors, as if hoping that someone might show up to save him. They were drawing more attention now from the adult witchers, and some of the instructors were pulling on heavier boots and sword belts.

“After all,” Ciri smiled, “I’m not going to be following any trails, except theirs, and slowly at that.”

Gregor hesitantly took the packet, making it disappear into one of the innumerable satchels that he, like most of the witchers, wore. He dragged a hand down his face. “Look, you’re--”

“--not going to leave your sight. Definitely,” Ciri said, nodding, fully aware that hadn’t at all been what he was about to say. She pushed herself up, to shouts of approval from the crowd of boys. More of them were streaming over; there had to be thirty, maybe more. “After all, we might run into wolves, right?”

“We can fight wolves!”

“Nekkers and badgers!”

“Yeah, n’ croc-diles, too!” That latter addition got someone punched, somewhere towards the rear of the crowd. There was an outraged ‘hey!’, and a scuffle broke out. Before the fight could get too serious, Ciri clapped her hands and reached for her crutch.

“All right, then.” It was clear that Ciri’s new army was a coalition only loosely held together by fickle curiosity. That was fine; she had worked with worse alliances. “Geralt, will you lead the way?”

The boy in question swallowed his hurried mouthful of lunch. “Yeah, ‘course!” he said, and bounded towards the front gate. The whole crowd gave a whoop and started after him in a swirling tide, Ciri and a handful of the golden-eyed teenagers drawn along in their wake. Gregor, looking very much like he wanted nothing more than to put Ciri right back in that little room so he could follow his damn orders, followed -- but he didn’t say anything, so Ciri didn’t push it.

By the time they hit the main gate, their little procession had grown to almost fifty, including one additional adult witcher who prowled casually along at the edge, as if he just coincidentally happened to be walking in same direction. The gate guard, seated on a wooden chair with his blade over his knee, never so much as glanced up from the edge he was honing.

It soon became obvious why he wasn’t concerned. Ciri had been able to get up a good bit of speed on the smooth flagstones, even with the nagging ache of her ribs to contend with. But as soon as the pack of boys veered off on a trail circling sharply to the right, the going became much harder. The trail was wide and well-traveled, at least, the snow packed down tightly, in contrast to the four foot deep drifts on either side. The packed snow was both uneven and slippery underfoot however, and Ciri had to slow down in order to pick her way along, her breath pluming white in the cold.

Still, the crackling-crisp air was bracing, and the sun turned the snowfield into a sea of diamonds. Whooping and chattering, most of the boys went racing ahead, back and forth between Ciri and the lake, like the urge to travel the Path had already taken root in them. In a few places, their teenage minders called them over, pointing out sets of tracks: rabbit, lemming, elk. It wasn’t much of a challenge; even a blind man could see the game trails in the fresh powder, much less a witcher. But the boys seemed to consider it a great game, plunging through powdery snow up to their necks in order to follow the animal trails through and around frost-covered bushes.

Sometimes, when Ciri glanced aside or wiped her brow on her forearm, she caught sight of an adult witcher or three -- she wasn’t even sure when they’d started following her -- stalking like wolves themselves between the trees, watching the impromptu column’s flanks with consummate, lazy skill.

The snow lay thinner towards the floor of the north valley, blanketing the close-crowded pines instead of piling up on the trail. She’d only rarely visited the lake in winter. It was lovely in the cold, the glittering branches of the pines hemming ice as clear as glass. But before, she had always preferred it in summer; the bitterly cold water had always felt heavenly after her obstacle runs, and the rocks were hot and perfect for sprawling across. Now, as the boys fanned out across the beach, their shouts and games echoing across the ice, Ciri decided that she liked the lake like this -- ringing with laughter -- best of all. One group had broken off and was already digging out forts and pitching snowballs at each other. Another trio crouched a few yards away, using sticks to poke at something unidentifiable and frozen into the ice underfoot.

Then Eskel dashed up, eyes bright, and grabbed her free hand. “Matthias is gonna help us fish. C’mon!”

Laughing, she let him tow her to the edge of the ice. Even as young as he was, Eskel was remarkably considerate, acting as a sturdy support on her good side whenever her footing slipped.

Matthias, as it turned out, was a redhead. The young witcher wasn’t quite eighteen, if Ciri had to guess, and lanky, all freckled pale skin and whipcord muscle. But he hefted a samum bomb with obvious expertise, surveying the semicircle of boys crowded behind him and gesturing them back a little further. “Ready?” he asked, and his audience cheered, jostling for a better vantage point.

“Ready!”

“Throw, throw!”

“Ok, here goes.” Turning, he lit the bomb with Igni and threw it in a single, smooth motion. It arced out over the ice, falling downward … then hit the ice and exploded. The fiery detonation rattled the nearby trees and shook the ice underfoot; water geysered twenty feet in the air. The assembled boys whooped in delight. Equipped with sticks, Eskel and the other boys went sliding out onto the lake before the cloud of snow and ice chunks had even settled. Ciri shook her head in amusement--it was obvious this wasn’t the first time they’d practiced this particular kind of fishing. _Geralt, you liar. Only taught this in case of emergencies, my ass._

Matthias and the other adult witchers hung back, letting the boys yell and elbow each other as they tried to lay claim to the slippery, flopping fish that had been jettisoned from the blast site. Some skidded down on their bellies in an arm’s-length ring around the new ‘fishing’ hole to try to prod stunned fish out with their sticks. Geralt had a struggling trout stuffed under each arm, and one fish or the other kept escaping every time he tried to wrangle a flopping third. Matthias, though, had his head cocked, just a little bit. Listening, Ciri realized. But for what?

A second later, she had her answer. Moving with inhuman speed, he lunged forward, yanking one overzealous boy back from the fractured edge of the hole, even as ice creaked ominously underfoot. Pulled backwards by the collar of his jacket, the child yelped as Matthias dragged him onto safer footing. Matthias frowned down at him as he let go. “What’s the rule?”

“Um--don’t walk near the edge,” the boy said. “But there’s a big--” he pointed.

Matthias’ scowl deepened. “What’s the rule?” he asked again.

The boy sighed. “Don’t stand near the edge,” he recited. Then, glancing up at Matthias, he scuffed a toe into the snow and added, “Even if there’s fish.”

“Good. Remember that next time.” Matthias cuffed the boy lightly on the ear. “Go on.” The boy didn’t have to be told twice; he scampered off, oblivious to the danger he’d been in. Matthias sighed, then resumed his earlier position. He was listening to the ice, Ciri realized: letting his sharpened senses warn him before the ice could have a chance to fail underfoot. The other adult witchers near the shore weren’t quite as obvious about it, but looking around, Ciri was pretty sure they were all keeping an ear out as well.

“How often does that happen on one of these trips?” she asked Gregor, who’d followed her all the while, like a particularly well-armed shadow. He looked sour.

“A couple times each trip for a group this size. More than it should. No sense of self-preservation, most of them,” Gregor said, crossing his arms.

“Well, that *is* pretty normal at their age,” she pointed out.

“They can’t afford to be normal,” Gregor emphasised, tilting his head back to scan the skies, like it was habit. “And we can’t afford to let them be.”

Ciri looked out across the glittering ice spread before her, remembering other ice fields, lonelier, void of the laughter that rang across this lake. “Hard way to grow up,” she said, not in any kind of accusation, more... commiseration.

“At least they’ll--” Gregor started, then caught himself short.

“What? Grow up?” Ciri couldn’t keep a touch of irony from her tone this time. Because most of them wouldn’t, would they? At least half these boys would die in the Trials, and a good number of the remainder would fall prey to one of the many hazards that this kind of upbringing entailed. Falling through the ice, a broken neck on one of those thin platforms … there were too many ways to court death. There were forty boys here; twelve, at most, might live to become full witchers. Which ones would make it, besides Eskel and Geralt? The sandy-haired lad who giggled as he skidded back to shore, arms full of fish, leaving them scattered in ones and twos behind him? The black-haired boy who had busied himself sticking half-frozen trout headfirst into a snowbank, so that it looked like some improbable shoal of flying fish had come to ground there?

“--have a chance,” Gregor finished, watching her with those eyes that saw too much.

Ciri looked away, uncertain how much she had already given away. She might have said something, were it not for the sudden swirl of boys running from a frozen inlet to crowd around her legs, all of them rosy-cheeked and smelling of fish. “Miss Falka! Witcher ma’am! Eric found sumfin, you wanna see?”

“Oh did he now?” Ciri said. A bit relieved at the distraction, she let the over-excited boys tug her away from Gregor. “What did he find? Is it a frost giant? Or something even bigger?”

“Nuh-uh,” said a tow-headed boy, “Not a giant. Sumfin all frozen, though! N’ pokin’ out all funny!”

“Well, that definitely seems worth investigating,” Ciri agreed, allowing herself to be swept along in their innocent enthusiasm -- away from all the uncomfortable questions that Gregor couldn’t answer, and she couldn’t ask.

 

*********

 

As the winter sun began to set on their little expedition, Ciri was more than ready to return to the warmth of the main hall. The sleepless night had left her tired already. Coming back up the trail from the lake proved more challenging than going down, with the cold biting at fingers and noses and fatigue making her footing even more uncertain. Gregor didn’t offer any help, though Ciri wasn’t sure if that was due to indifference, as a concession to her pride, or if it simply hadn’t occurred to him. In the end, though, they all made it back up the trail, the boys red-cheeked and triumphant, carrying a bounty of half-frozen fish.

The boys scattered once they were inside the walls, some heading to the kitchens so their prizes could be gutted and cleaned, others heading off in different directions--presumably to chores of their own. Ciri headed for the main hall, Gregor at her heels, and lowered herself gratefully onto a bench in front of one of the fireplaces. Setting her crutch aside, she gave Gregor a sidelong look. “So are you stuck with me all day? Or is there something else in the works?”

Gregor shrugged, seating himself across from her. “Not sure--Rennes hasn’t said anything yet.” Most of the witchers she’d met so far tended to be rather laconic, and Gregor was certainly no exception. Ciri wondered if that was due to their training, or just natural inclination. Or perhaps it was simply the natural result of a life spent mostly alone on the Path. The Monstrum, of course, would claim that their mutations stripped the witchers of all emotion, and most peasants seemed to believe the same -- very wrongly, in Ciri’s opinion.

Ciri smiled a little. “In that case, I’ll try to stay out of sight,” she said wryly, although she was loath to move from the warm hall. The big space hummed with activity now, and it took only a minute or two before someone noticed idle hands.

“Pardon me miss, will ye mind cutting some carrots? We need small rounds,” asked a man wearing rough homespun. He pushed a heavy basket onto the table, with a length of board and a rough kitchen knife balanced atop.

Gregor’s brows drew together slightly, and he slanted a look between Ciri and the knife -- then blinked down as another of the castle staff put a basket of dried beans in front of him. “‘An some for you, Sir,” nodded the man, both of them heading off as the kitchen called for another barrel of water. Glancing after them, Ciri was struck -- the man who’d brought her carrots was missing his right leg, somewhere below the knee. He walked on a simple wooden attachment, the end wrapped in rough fabric so as not to thump with each step. He seemed thoroughly accustomed to the prosthesis, his balance as good as a normal man’s. It was an unusual injury to survive.

Thoughtfully, Ciri laid the tools out in front of her, plucked out a roughly-scrubbed root vegetable, then started chopping. Gregor sighed, apparently accepting defeat, and set to work sorting small stones and debris from the soup beans. His vision and dexterity were evidently as well-suited to such pedestrian tasks as they were to monster-hunting. _Wonder what my court would think of me right now,_ she thought with some amusement. The empress surrounded by barbarian witchers and chopping vegetables--scandalous! It was a good thing she hadn’t been raised in the palace, or she’d be completely useless in dealing with both.

Gradually, the main hall began to fill with the preparations for an evening meal -- the staff displacing or recruiting the few groups of witchers still playing dice or cards at the tables. At a signal Ciri couldn’t hear, boys came streaming in to haul heavy covered pots, bundles of utensils, and pitchers of mead out to the tables, and then big wooden platters of clay-baked fish. When several boys came to collect Ciri’s giant pile of neatly-cut carrots, Gregor surrendered his baskets of beans as well. Their table began to fill up with boys of all ages, including Geralt and Klimek, who peppered her with questions until more witchers sat down to quiz them on every new move or grip they’d learned. Every table that she could see had at least one or two witchers seated alongside the mass of teenagers and boys.

It was unceremonious, crowded … and in a way, familiar: the loud conversation, uncovered dishes passed from hand to hand around the table. Aside from the fish -- steaming, smelling of thyme and salt when the thin clay coating cracked open -- there were piles of fried potatoes, lentils with carrots and stewed venison, and mounds of pungent mustard greens all glistening with oil. The amount of food that growing young witchers could pack away was truly astounding. With all the noise, Ciri could scarcely hear what was being said at the end of her table, let alone at the others.

A server came by, passing out mugs of an intensely herbal, mushroomy-smelling brew to the younger boys, skipping Ciri. She knew that scent, and took care not to display any particular curiosity. The boys made faces at the taste, wrinkling their noses, but otherwise made no complaints, obediently drinking down the concoction over the course of their meal.

Marcin joined them a half hour late, men and boys scooting over to make room. He brought his trencher, having apparently been eating at another table when he’d spotted them. He sat down, trencher in hand, and gave her a level, unamused stare. “Making yourself at home, I see. Frederic abandon you already?”

Ciri raised her eyebrows at Marcin’s sally. “Oh, I’m sure he’s still keeping a watch on me. Along with absolutely everyone else,” she said wryly, glancing pointedly at the witchers seated to her right and left.

“If you didn’t want to be watched, then you’re definitely in the wrong place,” said the witcher to her right, turning from an animated discussion with the boys about the best defensive pommel-grip to use with a saber. He wiped the grease from his fingers and extended a hand. He was handsome despite his collection of pock-like scars, with close-cropped hair and a broad jawline. “I’m Edik, by the way; I don’t think we’ve met yet.”

“Falka,” Ciri said in return, reaching across to shake it. “I’m pleased to meet you.” Which was the truth, oddly enough. She’d never intended to be thrown back so far, but even with all the dangers posed by her presence in this time, she found she was grateful to have this--to see Kaer Morhen as Vesemir and Geralt must have known it, to have the chance to meet these men, these boys, and learn their faces, share their lives. Before, they had been nothing more than a list of strangers’ names on an epitaph, yellowed bones at the bottom of a moat. Now … she swallowed hard against the lump in her throat.

Edik tilted his head, brows drawing together. “Is something wrong?”

Witcher senses were damnably inconvenient, sometimes. Ciri wasn’t sure what had given her away--a change in her heartbeat, a catch in her voice. But she forced a smile anyway. “No, I’m fine, just tired. It’s strange--I never thought I’d end up here, of all places.”

“I can imagine,” Edik said. “So, I hear a forktail dropped you on our roof? You’re looking remarkably healthy, considering.”

Caught off guard, Ciri laughed. “Not unless it also carried me hundreds of miles,” she said. “Pretty sure it was more like right place, wrong time, wrong spell.”

“Oh yeah? I must admit, I’ve never heard of anyone other than a witcher tangling with a forktail and walking away from it. What happened?” Edik asked, apparently honestly curious.

“Not much to tell,” Ciri shrugged, nodding to accept another helping of fish as the wooden platter went by. It was too good to forego seconds. “We were out for deer, the tracks were fresh -- so busy looking down that no one noticed the territorial gouges on the pines. Our bad luck that the pair was on the hunt, just then.” Better not to mention the nest she’d suspected; forktails didn’t have hatchlings this time of year.

Edik winced in sympathy. “Bad luck for sure. Though -- you know, it’s not impossible that one hauled you off. They’ve been known to carry away live prey. Just ask Marcin.”

Eyes around the table turned to the older witcher. “A story!” one of the boys chimed in. “Please, Grandmaster Marcin, we havent’a heard this one yet!”

“Yes please! A story! Please, sir!”

Marcin scowled impartially around the table -- or maybe just glanced around; it was rather difficult to read his expression under the deep scarring. He gave a rumbling sigh, eyed Ciri a moment longer. “The first thing you have to know,” he said, as the nearby section of the table started to quiet down, “is that to carry a man, a forktail has to be _big._ ”

“Oooh,” whispered a very small boy, obviously impressed, before his neighbors kicked at his legs to hush him.

“That means old, well-established, with a sharply defined territory. Might see a stretch of forest two miles across without growing tops at all, if it’s ringed enough trees. Now, kill an apex draconid like that, and there will be dozens of smaller ones moving in, within the month. Bad idea.” Marcin took a draft of his mead, and Ciri blinked. Some forktails did that, she knew -- carved such gouges that the tree quit growing taller, just got stouter and more bushy. But a whole swath of broken treetops? And *dozens* of other forktails?

“Sir, how come you took the contract, sir?” piped a trainee -- the one who, a few hours ago, had been trying to fence another boy with a fish, if Ciri recalled correctly.

“Wasn’t on the forktail, boy. Village was a decade old; they’d been living with the beast all that time. It took a sheep or two a month, and drove off the smaller flighted monsters. Wasn’t eating people, for the most part. Every spring, that village tried to put a contract on the forktail. Paper grew more faded every year, the sum crossed out and a new one written in. Never enough to make it worth any witcher’s time.

“But one spring when I rode through, the parchment was gone, replaced. Seems the beast started taking its tax from the same field every time. Happened to be the alderman’s field. He wanted a witcher to dispel the ‘curse’ that’d been placed on his pasture.”

“A curse to make the forktail eat just his sheep, Grandmaster?”

“So he supposed. Said I’d take a look.”

Ciri set an elbow on the table, eyelids growing heavy with the warmth and the food in her belly. For all his apparently dour nature, Marcin was an evocative storyteller, with that gravel growl of his. A number of boys were slipping away from their places to come closer and listen. It seemed like the swapping of tales was a frequent evening entertainment, for the hall was quieting down, and there were other tables with other stories too.

Ciri could almost see the events unfold, as Marcin described them. An alderman who’d insisted on coming with the witcher, a peaceful pasture all dotted over with blooming blowball and shorn spring sheep. Nothing seemed out of place in the rolling fields, the mushroom-fringed forest full of top-stunted trees.

Until the shadow came racing over the grass.

The forktail had grown bold, to be hunting at high noon. The shadow it cast as it stooped low over the pasture was long as four horses nose to tail, wide as five; so big that men might mistake it for a green dragon. The enormous, hollow horn that supported the creature’s crest made its shriek resonate like a hundred swords clearing their sheaths, and the sheep scattered, bleating. The forktail wheeled, tailtips whipping like lashes, and singled one out.

“Not again!” cried the alderman, and charged… straight towards the plunging forktail.

“Are you out of your _mind?!_ ”

Apparently the alderman was. He didn’t stop, running straight for his sheep--and the forktail--waving his staff in the air and crying ‘shoo!’ and ‘begone!’ like he was chasing _blackbirds_ out of his damn garden. Cursing, Marcin lunged forward, unsheathing his silver sword. The alderman was running flat out, and managed to get surprisingly far. Overhead, the forktail flung its wings forward, long hind talons spreading to seize its prey, with no means or inclination to stop. Marcin dove, got a hand on the alderman, and flung him back with all his strength. Using the momentum, he rolled, coming up with blade in hand …

… just in time to meet the forktail’s claws. Talons closed hard around him, the blunt tips punching through leather and chain and flesh, trapping his sword arm against his body. The stunning impact flattened him hard, the jerk and _wrench_ as the wings came down nearly separated arm from shoulder. But the creature didn’t seem to care that it held a struggling man rather than a bleating sheep, for it bore him into the sky with another triumphant shriek. The ground dropped away, horizon lurching sickeningly, tree-branches whipping at his flesh as the forktail cleared the truncated treeline. Marcin felt his blood, hot and wet, slicking the inside of his armor. He needed a swallow potion, but pinned as he was, there was no way to reach the vials. If he fell from this height, it might kill him. But he couldn’t afford to wait for the creature to land; if the forktail’s talons didn’t kill him outright, chances were the landing would crush him under its weight.

And if not, he would be torn apart, eaten alive and thrashing. Hardly a preferable fate.

The creature banked, dropping lower, and Marcin caught the glimpse of a small hill rising up beneath them. Seizing his chance, he flung up his left hand and hit the beast with Aard at point-blank range. The concussive force of the glyph flung the creature tumbling backward through the air, and loosened its grip. Marcin pulled a dagger, stabbing blindly at scaly legs. The forktail squalled and recoiled--and then he was falling. Falling, and crashing through tree branches before hitting the sandy, exposed face of the eroded hillside.

Sliding to a stop in a shower of sandy dirt and rock, Marcin fumbled for the potions in his pouch. The first vial he found was broken, smashed by his landing. The second was intact, and he gulped down the contents, barely even registering the acrid burn of the swallow potion before it took effect. He pushed himself to his feet as his wounds knitted, hand still locked around his sword’s hilt, ready to do battle-

-but the forktail was gone. Had decided, apparently, to retreat and lick its own wounds rather than search for its lost prey.

Marcin sat down with a thump, head sagging, as he caught his breath. Then he sheathed his blade, downed another potion for good measure, and climbed to his feet to follow the trail. There wasn’t a lot to go on. He hadn’t managed to score more than a glancing blow on the creature’s thick hide, and more of his own blood had splashed the ground than the forktail’s. It took some sniffing around within the marked boundaries of the creature’s territory, but eventually he found a fresh scent trail, and then, its nest.

The forktail had been and gone--there were fresh spots of blood dotting the nearby brush and the heaped debris of the nest itself, but no monster. Instead Marcin found nothing but scraps of draconid hide from old molts and the remains from the creature’s kills. The bones of sheep and deer, for the most part, plus one well-chewed, decaying sheep carcass. He poked at it, more out of disgust and annoyance than anything. The stench was pungent, and … was not quite like that of rotting meat. Instead it had an an odd, almost fruity-metallic tang -- nothing quite like he had ever smelled before.

Curiosity whetted, Marcin crouched, looking the carcass over more closely. Most of the soft parts were long gone, devoured. But under the smell of old blood, on the insides of the gnawed ribs and pale backbone where the stomach and guts had once been, the scent was strongest. He took an experimental sniff of the other remains. There wasn’t much left to find--but what little scent he did find clung only to sheep bones, and none at all to deer.

Interesting.

He could choose to wait until the forktail came back, and ambush it at its nest. But if his guess was correct, that wouldn’t solve the problem of the curse. Climbing down, Marcin headed for the nearest rise. With any luck, the forktail hadn’t carried him too far; once he got his bearings, he would be able to make the village again before nightfall.

Trudging up the path, Marcin avoided the palisade surrounding the small collection of houses. Instead, he headed for the ‘cursed’ pasture. The alderman was nowhere in sight, which suited Marcin just fine. Keeping a wary eye on the sky, he jumped the makeshift fence and hunkered down next to the low wall, watching the sheep graze. Or more specifically, *where* they grazed.

It was about as exciting as one might expect. But by the time the locals came out with their dogs and staves to herd the sheep under cover for the night, Marcin had his answer.

“What was it, sir?” one of the boys asked when Marcin stopped to pour himself another tankard. “Was the ground cursed somehow?”

“Or the sheep!” Piped another boy, swiftly adding, “sir.”

Marcin snorted. “Not the way they thought. On one side of the pasture, there was a wallow, of sorts, with water pooling in it. A salt lick, steeped in heavy metals--you could taste them in the water. And the blowball that grew nearby tasted unusual because of it. Those plants were nibbled down near the roots, while the grass around grew thick.” He snorted. “Best I could tell, the sheep liked the taste of that lick--and the forktail decided he liked the taste of those sheep. Not really the kind of curse I could break, in any case.”

“But --” Klimek, the boy who ran with Geralt and Eskel, wriggled on the scant span of bench that’d been left to him, so overcrowded was their table. “Sir, but what did you tell the village, sir?”

Marcin fixed the boy with his stare. “Nothing else for it. Told them that the wash was haunted, to put up a fence. Keep the sheep out.” Ciri winced. A witcher didn’t receive a fee for merely identifying a curse, only for dispelling it. Marcin must have left that place in ruined armor, potions emptied or destroyed, with little to show for it but new scars.

“Now,” said Marcin, surveying the gathered crowd, the remains of the repast. “You all have duties to finish up before bed.”

To their credit, there was no chorus of protest from the assembled boys, although they managed to convey an air of disappointment all the same. Other tables were dispersing as well, the young trainees ferrying platters and dishware back to the kitchens, scraps to the hog sties, broken clay to the midden heap. Ciri couldn’t help her jaw-cracking yawn.

Marcin swirled the dregs of his mead in his tankard. “Falka,” he said, and Ciri looked up perhaps a little warily, as the boys filtered away from the table, leaving her the sole focus of half a dozen witchers. “Think you’ve had enough for one day.”

Gregor nudged her arm. “Come on,” he said, and stood.

Ciri followed him.

It was a slow walk -- or hopping limp, in Ciri’s case -- back up to that small room. The fire had been lit again, at least, and her boots and cot were just where they’d been left. Exhausted though she was, Ciri couldn’t help harboring some faint thread of irritation at being imprisoned for the night. “Gregor,” said Ciri, pausing to take a few deep breaths at the top of the stairs. The celandine at midmorning had definitely, definitely worn off. “The rest of that story, the part that Marcin didn’t tell the boys. What was it?”

“Hn?” said Gregor, holding the door open. He shrugged. “Oh. Forktail was dead the next spring. Infection, Marcin thinks. Smaller ones moved in; village was demolished. About what you’d expect. Sleep well, Falka.”

“You too,” said Ciri, thoughtfully, and went in.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to Fen_Assan, for the fabulous beta! Any remaining mistakles are our own.
> 
> Warnings for explicit m/m/f and m/m/m.

The snow did come down that night, laying a thick and muffling blanket across the courtyard and the training grounds. It didn’t seem to slow the trainees down much. When Cirilla limped across the terrace in Frederic’s company, just past dawn, they leapt and tumbled on icy platforms, dodging the flailing arms of the windmill or striking back at the swinging logs. This time Vesemir was out there as well, the other instructors deferring to him, and she’d been right: he was more demanding, pushing the boys harder, faster, ruthlessly calling out any misstep. Even in the few minutes it took her to cross, she witnessed two bad tumbles off the ice-shrouded footing. The boys sprang back up from their falls each time, apparently no worse for wear, but that didn’t keep Ciri’s heart from lurching. 

At breakfast, she was introduced to another handful of witchers, and received several more casual invitations to various quarters. She wasn’t quite sure what to say to these. In a castle full of witchers, she couldn’t imagine that, err, private activities would stay private very long. Most seemed to be sharing rooms in any case--unsurprising, given the number of witchers here for the winter--so how exactly was that supposed to work? Fortunately, they seemed content to simply extend the invitations and then proceed about their business, without either demanding answers or applying pressure, as if they were simply offering to involve her in a game of dice. It was assuredly strange but, Ciri thought, a refreshing change from what normally happened when she mingled with fighting men under an assumed guise.

Rather than sitting out in the snow to observe the training that afternoon, Frederic suggested that she visit the archives. Or more accurately, ordered her to ‘go pester Dean, girl. He gets grumpy without anyone to talk to.’ As much as Ciri wanted to watch Vesemir, she doubted that her attention would go unnoticed by the other witchers, and so she agreed readily enough. Gregor shrugged, and led her up the stairs to what had once been the citadel’s library.

In this time, it still was, of course. But what had once been--would be--a half dozen quickly-reconstructed shelves, draped with oilcloth when not in use to keep drips from the leaking roof at bay, was now a well-lit rotunda with crowded bookcases that reached to the ceiling. There had to be… hundreds of books here, and just as many rolled scrolls all neatly stored in grid-like lattices. Quills scritched on vellum at copying desks, where a man and a woman worked diligently. The windows, once mortared over, were now fitted instead with thickly bubbled, costly glass panes that cast warm shafts of light in stripes across chairs and reading tables. 

A wiry, slender witcher stood over one such table. He wore a well-fitted Nilfgaardian vest and trousers that might have come from a historical drama--from the period before bright colors fell out of fashion amongst the aristocracy. For that matter, he might have originally been Nilfgaardian himself, with that dark hair and sharp profile. He glanced up as Ciri made her way in; his eyes were an otherworldly shade, almost more orange than golden. 

“Oh good,” he said. “Can you read?” 

Ciri blinked. “...I can,” she said cautiously. Her education might have been rather unconventional, but between Vesemir and Yennefer--and much later, Emhyr and a battalion of imperial tutors--it had been thorough, to say the least. She was familiar enough with texts and writing styles from this era, in at least three languages.

“Good.” The witcher--Dean, she assumed--gathered together his pile of scrolls and transferred them onto the table in front of her. “Go through these. I’m looking for references to royal griffin matings. Let me know if you find any.”

“Uh--ok?” Ciri looked around for a stool, grabbed the nearest, and pulled it over. “Why are we researching royal griffins? Do you have a contract?” she asked as she began to unroll the first.

“No.” Ciri waited for the rest of the answer, only to have Dean disappear between the shelves again. _Likes to talk. Riiiight._ Shaking her head, she unrolled the parchment with care. The smell of dusty vellum and old ink was comforting. The first scroll was anatomical, every part of a young cockatrice sketched out with exacting precision across twelve feet of parchment, right down to the vocal cords and venom sacs. The next was an account of creatures found only in the Skellige Isles. These went far beyond the basic, or even advanced, bestiaries that she remembered from her own training. The detail was extraordinary: descriptions of long-vanished species from before the Convergence; observations by early witchers and mages of magnificent elven cities; maps of places she had never seen, showing the slow spread of human exploration, the changing borders of fiefs and baronies as human hamlets pressed further into the continent.

“This is _amazing_ ,” she exclaimed the next time Dean padded by. “Look at these -- who knew anyone had done this kind of in depth study of kikimores? They’ve even identified three different subspecies I’ve never heard of!” 

The archivist paused, arms loaded with leather-bound tomes. “You’ve studied kikimores?” 

“Well, not exclusively,” Ciri admitted. “Never had the luxury. But we kept having infestations in -- in Scala, so I had to research habitat and movement.” That region would be western Lyria in her time, where she’d waged a successful campaign against an infestation of kikimore queens. Lost hundreds of good men and several small hamlets, despite Lambert and a friend of his from the School of the Bear. She hadn’t been able to reach additional witchers in time to recruit their assistance, a failing which still stung. 

“Interesting--I don’t believe we have any first-hand accounts of that area,” Dean said. Laying his armful of books down with care, he sorted through the piles until he found unused parchment and an inkwell. “What species did you say you encountered?” 

“The kind with a green stripe running up their forelegs; three eyes in a cluster on each side of their heads. Darker than usual.” 

“Chiliad kikimore. Nasty sons of bitches.” Dean spread out his parchment, beginning to write with a clear, quick hand. 

“Daughters, actually,” Ciri couldn’t help correcting. “I know that drones are the workers and soldiers in most kikimore colonies, but these were all female, just developed to greater or lesser extent. The ones that I saw, anyway,” she hastened to add.

Dean fixed her with that slit-pupiled, sulfur-flame stare. “Could that explain the occasional rapid colony expansion?

“I think so,” Ciri said thoughtfully. “In especially wet seasons, with plenty of resources, you might get some of the soldiers fully developing into queens.” Which was exactly what had happened, so far as Lambert and O’Connor could piece together. 

“Fascinating. There must be a separate drone class for that subrace, then--” The resulting conversation was surprisingly engaging--Ciri didn’t really have anyone capable of discussing monstrous races at the Court, no one to talk over ideas and conjectures, save on the rare occasions a witcher visited. Mages of any stripe tended to focus only on those species needed for their next experiment, with little regard for the natural activities of the creatures. 

When Ciri was finally released back to her search for royal griffon mating habits, she found Gregor sitting in the sun with Aubry. She wasn’t certain when he’d come in. The recently-injured witcher, wrapped in a heavy cloak, was hunched over his own small book. 

Ciri tucked the folio she’d been reviewing under her free arm and reached for her crutch. It was still helpful for balance and for climbing stairs, but at least now she could put some weight on the splinted leg without gasping in pain. She made her way over to the little cluster of reading chairs, and watched Aubry inhale sharply as she did, no doubt tracking her by scent before he even looked up.

Smiling as non-threateningly as she could, Ciri jerked her chin at an old and thinly-padded settee. “Mind if I join you?” she asked.

Aubry nodded warily. 

“How are you feeling?” Ciri asked, once she’d gotten herself settled and the folio arranged on a v-shaped stand. It felt heavenly to be able to put her leg up. 

“... better,” Aubry admitted. His voice was still gravelly, as if he weren’t used to speaking. “Still have a long way to go.” 

Ciri nodded soberly. Aubry no longer looked like a dead man walking, at least--the deathly pallor and prominent black veins were gone from his skin. But he was still gaunt, and visibly weak, and while even a witcher’s metabolism couldn’t restore lost muscle or fat reserves in only a day, Ciri was surprised that he didn’t look better. The witchers she had known, Geralt included, applied mutagen recipes that would accelerate healing, increase stamina--they were dangerous, injected as a bolus into the larger muscles where they might persist for years, and used only when absolutely necessary. But there was no denying they were effective. 

“Well, at least you have the winter to rest and heal,” she said, giving him a sympathetic smile. “By spring, I’m sure you’ll be more than ready to get out of here and back on the Path.”

Aubry grimaced. “I’ll be heading in a different direction, next season,” he said bitterly. “And avoiding any contracts involving ploughing barons and their idiot offspring.” 

Ciri’s eyebrows went up, and she leaned back. “Oh? I take it this wasn’t just another village contract?” So there _was_ more to the story.

“No. None of the local villages could put up enough coin for something like a chort,” Aubry replied. “One of the local lords sent word out for a witcher.”

“What happened?” Ciri asked. “If you don’t mind me asking?”

Aubry hesitated, giving her an assessing look. He looked over at Gregor--the other witcher gave him a tiny, noncommittal shrug. Apparently deciding that telling her wouldn’t reveal any secrets, Aubry sighed, putting the book down and scrubbing a hand over his face. “I took the contract. Problem was, the thing’s territory stretched into a neighboring barony. Radyr and Carraigh had been arguing over the creature for two generations.”

“Arguing?” Ciri frowned. “About what? Chort don’t have hoards. No treasure to fight over. Don’t even wear it like a katakan.” 

Aubry gave a sound like a laugh, but cold, quiet. “Know that much. Learned later that the creature was the lynchpin of the boundary bargain between the fiefs. Should have guessed it, the way Radyr treated me. Ale, cheeses, good bread and roasted goose too, women--” he looked away. “Nothing like the way most folk treat a witcher.”

Ciri nodded in understanding. 

“Rode out the next day with the Baron Radyr’s three sons as witnesses. Had trumpeters as we passed; an entire damn retinue. The gold from that contract would have been enough to--so stupid.” Ciri couldn’t tell whether he was speaking, just then, about the parade or himself. Perhaps it made no difference. 

“Couldn’t find the fucking thing. It was avoiding us, kept slipping away. Camped in the forest for a week before the fiend spoor I had on me finally worked to bring it to us.” Aubry studied Ciri’s expression. “The fucking baronets--I found a place for them amongst a tumble of boulders so thick a chort couldn’t have gotten through. Should have worked.”

“They tried to kill it?”

“Once I had it on its knees, they pulled long knives--were carrying silver with them all that time--and came running out like shit after little green apples. Sorry.” 

Ciri waved her hand. “No offense taken. Didn’t go well?”

“Wasn’t in much better shape than the chort myself, by that time,” Aubry admitted. “Beat all to hell, side ripped up, bleeding out. Never thought they’d be stupid enough to charge the beast.” He shook his head, taking a deep, shuddering breath. “Found out later the baron told them that whichever of the three killed the chort, he would name as heir. Guess with three sons, he figured he could take the risk of losing one or two.”

It was a stupid risk for the local lord to take, and for not much reward, in Ciri’s estimation. But she didn’t doubt Aubry’s story. She’d seen men kill over less. “What happened?”

“Bout what you think.” Aubry looked away for a moment. “I’d chopped the chort up pretty good, but it wasn’t dead. From what I hear, you should know what that means.” Ciri nodded; a wounded monster fighting for its life was often more dangerous than a healthy one. “Before I could finish it off, the little bastards were right there in the middle of it, trying to stab the beast. It reared back, hit me backhand--threw me into a tree. I was out for only a second, but by the time I managed to stagger back into the fight, one of the baron’s sons was down, not moving, and the chort was chewing on the other’s neck.”

Ciri winced. She could imagine the shearing damage those huge, blunt teeth could do. 

“The third was still trying to kill the thing, stabbing at the chort in all the wrong places. Managed to distract it long enough for me to shove my blade through its heart, but not before the thing knocked him flying, same as me. Had to use steel to sever the chort’s head--kept thrashing even with my silver through its chest. Took five heavy blows, everything I had left in me. Wasn’t until the head came off that the beast started to change.”

Aubry fell silent for a long moment, like he was trying to figure out how to describe the confusion, the horror, of that moment. In the end, he only gave a quick shake of his head. “Figured out eventually that it was Carraigh--grandfather of the current baron. The other baron, I mean. Radyr’s ancestor promised him land as long as he lived; he made a bargain with witches--plenty of different stories about how it happened. Spell came undone with his death, and. Well.

“Anyway, went looking for the last baronet afterwards. Didn’t take long to find him. Back was broken, ribs smashed. He died there, in the forest. Radyr must’ve wanted some land, expected a trophy and an heir to go along with. Instead he got an old man’s head and three bodies to bury. Blamed me for it, of course.” A normal man would have sounded angry, indignant at how he had been made a scapegoat for circumstances out of his control. Aubry just sounded resigned, as if he had half-expected it all along. 

“He refused to honor the contract, put a blood price on my head. The other baron, Carraigh, heard about it. Each accused the other of colluding with a witcher to murder their kin, sent out guardsmen after me. In the end, none of the locals would offer shelter or food, even for coin--didn’t want to take the risk. I was too cut up to hunt. With winter coming, I could either try to make it over the passes to Kaer Morhen, or head south and hope I found shelter before the weather caught up with me.” He shrugged, spreading his hands as if to say, _and here I am._

Ciri exhaled slowly. “There was no way you could have known,” she said at last.

Aubry laughed again, a bitter, sharp sound. “Last I heard, they were going to war, Radyr and Carraigh. Winter raiding, the whole bloody mess. Guess it’s not going to matter whether those peasants helped me or not in the end.” 

Because they’d end up dead, either from the hardships a war in winter entailed, or slain in raids, their villages burned. Ciri sat for a few moments, considering. She wished she understood more about the power structures in play throughout the area, the motivations on the ground, but from what she did know about ruling in general…. “You know, it’s likely those barons would have gone to war anyway. Seems to me they were just looking for an excuse.”

Aubry stared at her. “You know the barons?”

“No, but--I’ve spent a little time around nobles, enough to get some sense of what drives men of that ilk, just as soon as they get some power.” Ciri explained. “Radyr wouldn’t have wagered all his legitimate heirs, even if he did expect you would take most of the risk in the hunt--not unless he was really after something else, something important. He would have found some other excuse to go to war to get it, no matter what you did. Or didn’t do. The chaos might actually be shorter-lived because of you, come to think of it.”

Aubry sat for a moment, working through all of that, lips tight. “Don’t see how this mess could be better than the alternative, if I hadn’t gotten involved.”

“Well, without his sons, Radyr has a new problem--he has no heir. A succession crisis is going to occupy his attention, and allow for fewer resources to be devoted to raiding his neighbors or hatching clever little plans like this one,” Ciri said, tapping fingers on her book as she thought about it. “And with his grandfather’s death, Carraigh doesn’t have the legal claim on his fief that he once had. That makes it difficult to call in allies, and now he may have to devote more men towards defending his own borders. If the chort had lived, more baronies might’ve been roped in on both sides, which would have caused a lot more devastation.”

“That’s a lot of ifs and maybes,” said Aubry at last, but some of the bitterness was gone, replaced by uncertainty.

Ciri shrugged. “I don’t know the area well enough to know anything for sure, I’m afraid. Point is, you can’t blame yourself for anything that happened there, or will happen. None of us know the future, after all.” Which was more than a little ironic, given her current position. “I’m sorry you got caught up in all of that, though. You don’t deserve to be made the scapegoat for their greed.” 

Aubry regarded her a moment. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks,” he said at last. 

“Ahem. You find that passage yet?” 

Ciri started a little as Dean appeared over her shoulder. The archivist moved like a damn cat. “Er, I’m … still looking?” she ventured.

Dean folded his arms. “Looked to _me_ like the two of you were over here yapping, instead of being useful.” He favored them both an impartial glare, then stalked off once they appeared sufficiently cowed. Ciri exchanged a quick smile with Aubry, and went back to her research.

 

******

 

In the end, she spent most of the day mewed in the library. Dean proved to be not only a consummate researcher and archivist, but an absolute master at putting people to work--not a single witcher or novice who wandered into the library made it out without being set to find some obscure bit of lore or misfiled tome. For her part, Ciri found herself little inclined to escape--it was a bit of a relief, actually, to hide away in the sunlit shelves and read lost volumes about legendary beasts rather than stew over her own predicament. She even found a few mentions of the Elder Blood, though she couldn’t do more than quickly skim the information. She certainly didn’t want anyone noticing her interest in *that* particular subject. 

Sometime in the early evening, the smell of cooking and the clatter of crockery began to filter up from the main hall below. Ciri stretched, joints popping as she unkinked her back. She’d only been vaguely aware that the light was beginning to fade; this time of year, sunset came early, and she’d been determined to eke out all the reading time she could. Now she blinked as Dean appeared, a magelight lantern in one hand. 

“Time to call it quits,” he told her. Over the course of the day, he’d become marginally less brusque. “No point in killing your eyes reading in poor light when there’s food downstairs.”

“Mnh. I suppose,” Ciri said, carefully re-rolling the scroll in front of her and tying it shut. She handed it to him, giving him a wry smile. “Thank you, by the way--it was nice to have a little bit of peace and quiet.” In her own time, days like this were vanishingly rare. As empress, there were simply too many demands on her time. 

“You’re welcome,” Dean said, inclining his head slightly. Those flame-gold eyes regarded her for a moment, as if he intended to say something else. Apparently thinking better of it, he turned to Gregor instead, who to all appearances was napping in a nearby chair, the book he’d been assigned lying open across his chest. “You outlasted your guard dog, at least.” He prodded Gregor’s outstretched boots.

“I’m awake,” Gregor promptly answered, eyes still closed.

“And to think I imagined that meditation involved less snoring.”

“It’s an advanced technique,” Gregor said without missing a beat. Blinking, he glanced around at the quiet library. “We the last?”

“Wait any longer, and you’ll miss the mutton,” Dean pointed out, to Gregor’s apparent alarm, because the younger witcher hauled himself promptly to his feet--catching his sliding book with a flicker of reflex too fast to track.

“Well then. Ready to go fight for a space at the tables?” 

As it turned out, very little fighting was involved. Simon and Marrok, the pair she’d met during breakfast the first day and who’d invited Ciri to visit them, called them over and made space. The mutton was just as good as Gregor seemed to suppose, though--whole joints crusted with char but moist and red inside, each slice heaped with a relish of crushed mint, oil, and salt. There was more chewy brown bread, baked with rosemary this time, and warm red shredded cabbage, dressed with honey-vinegar and studded with currants and pine nuts. 

The boys clustered at the table had mostly finished demolishing everything directly in front of them, and now leaned against one another, eyelids heavy. They’d picked up new bruises and scrapes, while those from yesterday were already fading greenish blotches. Their noses and fingertips were still reddened despite the heat of the hall. One boy stoppered up his jaw-cracking yawn with both hands.

“Long day?” Ciri asked, easing her leg over the bench. The hours spent mostly elevating the limb had done it some good. 

“Yeah! But we gotta do handsprings offa the comb only Alec still can’t do ‘em right--” piped Eric, his nose blotched dark with a spreading bruise. Ciri had ended up with more than her fair share of black eyes on the comb, so she sympathised. The dark-haired boy next to Eric must have been Alec, because he booted the other boy hard.

“Enough,” growled Marrok, before the table could dissolve into bleary-eyed squabbling. “I’m letting you all go early. Straight to bed, the lot of you.”

Small boys slumped dejectedly. They weren’t quite as obedient as the group from last night--someone made a disappointed little ‘aww’ sound--but it looked like they were all too exhausted to argue. 

“Good to see you again,” Simon smiled as the boys trickled away from the table, helping himself to another mound of cabbage in their absence. “Looks like you even made it out of Grandmaster Dean’s lair intact.”

“If only all uncanny creatures liked books so well, I’d get along with them much better,” Ciri smiled, finding a mostly-clean fork and sharp knife amid the jumble of cutlery. This time, Gregor only glanced her way, instead concentrating on topping up several mugs at the table with what smelled like vodka. 

“Oh ho, we have a scholar on our hands,” Simon mock-warned, waving a forkful of cabbage. 

“I wish,” Ciri said wistfully. And oh yes, this was definitely vodka, strong enough to make her eyes water, too. “Used to be I hated having to sit still and study. Always wanted to be out and about. Now, I wish I had more days where I could just curl up and study whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted.” She shook her head, and heaved a sigh. “I must be getting old.”

“Oh yes, you’re a veritable crone,” Marrok said dryly, reaching for another piece of bread. The kitchens hadn’t even wasted time in slicing the loaves, just quartered them and sent them out to the tables, so the hunks were still warm inside. “We’re all young sprats next to you.”

“Babes in the woods, really,” Simon put in helpfully, refilling his own flagon, then Marrok’s.

Gregor snorted. “More like wolves in the woods,” he muttered into his cup.

“... that eat babes?” Ciri added. She batted her eyes at him in ridiculous likeness of flirting, and Gregor promptly choked on his vodka. Simon and Marrok cracked up laughing as the other witcher spluttered.

“Oh, Gregor’s been known to nibble on a babe or two,” Simon said, snickering. “Right, Gregor? What was the name of that aspiring poetess? The one who kept composing odes to your, ahem, attributes?”

“And performing them,” Marrok added.

“Publically!” 

Gregor was actually blushing now, ears and neck turning red. “Shut your traps,” he snapped, once he had his breath back. “It wasn’t like that. Marguerite was--”

Simon leaned over to Ciri. “Was very fond of peaches, if you know what I mean. Especially the firm and well-muscled kind,” he confided, waggling his eyebrows comically, hands outlining the shape of buttocks. A giggle escaped before Ciri could stifle it behind her hand, and Gregor turned even redder. “Our fine specimen of witcherhood here has an entire repertory devoted to his, ahem, fruit.”

“Simon!” Gregor snapped. 

Ciri grinned at Gregor. Apparently Geralt wasn’t the only witcher who was plagued by garrulous bards. “Poor Gregor,” she said sympathetically. 

“Like you couldn’t bounce a crown off those rock-solid, uh, globes. Bet he’ll show you later, if you ask,” Simon winked. “Ack, no, not the death-glare sign! Careful, boys, he’s hexing! Seriously, though, grab the rest of that roast. Still another few slices left.”

Gregor apparently saw the sense in this, at least. Growling, he slid the mutton onto his own trencher just before an older boy took the empty platter back to the kitchens. Other tables must have let their youngest charges go somewhat early as well, because the hall was gradually emptying out, although the witchers seemed to be staying in clusters to talk and drink. Someone had a three-stringed, southern lute, and played it with at least a little skill.

The noise of the hall was interrupted by the echoing bang of metal on wood. As if it were a cue, silence descended, the assembled witchers halting--sometimes in mid-tale--to turn their attention to the table at the head of the hall. Rennes was there, along with several other senior witchers--she spotted Vesemir and Frederic, among others--and the hilt of an eating dagger in his hand had apparently been the source of the noise. He pushed himself to his feet, setting aside the blade and picking up a bottle. From the look of it, Ciri was willing to bet the contents were a great deal more potent than vodka. 

“We gather tonight to remember,” he said, his voice carrying. The other full-fledged witchers that Ciri had met and many that she hadn’t, were nearby--all with bottles or flagons of their own. “To remember our brothers who are still on the Path. We drink to their health, and to honor those who have ended their long journeys.” His face was solemn, the lines in it deeply carved. “To Cyryl and Marcus. Their Paths may have finished, but their names will not be forgotten.” He lifted the bottle to his lips and drank deep.

“To Cyryl! To Marcus!” Across the hall, witchers lifted flagons, bottles, and tankards in libation. A little uncertain if she was intruding, Ciri raised her own mug with the rest of them, trying not to choke on the resulting swallow of harsh vodka.

Thanks to the kitchen crew, more bottles found their way to the long tables. Ciri noted the different kinds as they went by, passing from hand to hand--Temerian rye seemed popular, as did the half dozen casks of beer, mead, and cider. There was even wine, the mediocre kind that no amount of aging would improve. And, of course, bottles of white gull, which Simon and Gregor intercepted before they could reach her cup. 

She had seen Geralt and the others get drunk--it took more alcohol than it did for normal men, but the end results were pretty much the same: the singing, the staggering, the drunken proclamations. The property damage … was a bit of a different story. And as it turned out, fifty drunken witchers were nothing short of riotous. Fortunately, the furniture here was sturdily built, but she could see why the crockery wasn't painstakingly crafted.

“To Cyryl,” Simon said, polishing off his flagon. Ciri had lost track of how much beer he’d had--enough to put a normal man on the floor, that was for certain. “’m gonna miss that mean little bastard,” he added, hiccuping.

“Little?” Ciri asked. She was feeling pleasantly fuzzy around the edges, but knew better than to try and match witchers drink for drink. Or even drink for five, come to think of it.

“Oh yeah, Cyryl was tiny. Short little fucker, even as a kid,” Simon replied, holding a hand about knee-height from the ground in illustration. Ciri squinted at it. Somehow she didn’t think Cyryl had been quite *that* small. “Absolutely hated being chaffed about it. But he was fearless, too. Would tackle anything, no matter how big.”

“Had trouble with the smaller things, though,” said a witcher Ciri didn’t know, bringing another bottle over to their table. “You remember his story about the pet arachas? Ended up keeping it for a week. But how he got it--”

“Oh, Melitile. He needed a live one, see, but you can’t knock the fuckers out.”

Ciri blinked. “Why ever would anyone want a live--”

Another little group of witchers joined them, but apparently the tale was familiar to everyone. “So he managed to get a rope around it, just this knotted up ball with the legs thrashing everywhere. But his horse--”

“Every time it shot out a new web, the horse would spook, right? Because of course he had it slung over the withers--”

“--like an idiot. Forty miles to go, and you can’t hold Axii for that long. So he had this arachas just gluing itself to his damn horse or passing carts or him, whichever was handier, with the legs all waving around--”

“Was willing to try anything, because by this time it’d webbed up _everything._ A bolt of fabric, a goose, a nice soup pot, some lady’s embroidery hoop, branches, part of a fence post, all of this random shit just rattling and squawking along behind or stuck to him or the horse--”

“And apparently he thought, if he made some of those screeching noises, like you hear in arachas’ nests, if you go in quiet enough--”

“So he was riding through fields and over bridges, right through villages, all night long, making this high-pitched ‘shree-eee’ sound the entire way.”

“We only found out because Hyrum came along a couple days later, yanno. Was passing through the same villages. First man he saw pulled off his hat, flagged him down on the road. Said he’d give anything, anything--”

“If only he kept that other witcher from singing again!”

“To Cyryl’s fine singing voice! And his, uh, ‘magnetic’ personality!” This warranted several new rounds of libations. “You remember that time Marcus dragged that pony up over the pass, decked it out in flowers, and replaced Cyryl’s horse in the middle of the night?”

“Ach, Marcus. Never has a man gone so far for a good joke.”

“Absolutely legendary, the pranks he pulled. The pony wasn't the least of it--”

“It wasn’t just any pony, right, it was--” 

“But where did he get the clam juice?”

That being, presumably, part of a separate (but equally spectacular) story about Marcus’s escapades, Ciri looked for Simon to untangle the threads of the tale, but he was no longer at the table. Ciri nudged her erstwhile guard. “You see Simon anyplace?” Marrok was missing as well.

Gregor shrugged. His pupils were dilated from the white gull so much they seemed round, but he looked alert enough. “Said he was going to get some cards. Probably got waylaid.”

“Cards?” Another witcher--Dorek, Ciri thought--looked up from refilling the flagons. “‘E’s got the best decks here.”

“Learned a new variant of caravan; get me an extra deck and I’ll--”

Dorek looked over to them. “Hey, he won’t miss a couple decks. Gregor, you know where he keeps them, right?”

“Err--” Gregor glanced around, then to Ciri, obviously unwilling to leave his charge.

Ciri pushed herself upright, and found her crutch. “Alright, then.” A walk would do her some good, to be honest, the way the world had blurred pleasantly. She could barely even feel her leg. “Let’s go borrow some cards.”

Two wide, parallel hallways stretched above the great hall. In Ciri’s childhood, one of them was partially collapsed and impassable, but the other was lined with identical gaping doorways leading to more than a dozen small chambers. The cold and the hollow rustle of mice and rats once led Ciri to think it might have been used as a prison block. But in this time, freshly whitewashed, lit by flickering candlelight and warmed by the hearths below, the rooms seemed as simple and friendly as the dormitories at Oxenfurt. 

Most of the doors were propped open with saddlebags or sacks of supplies; golden-eyed teenagers carried covered trays and armloads of laundered bedding back and forth, despite the late hour. Intended for witchers as injured as Aubry, perhaps? Ciri hadn’t seen him downstairs either. Gregor paused along the way to wave or exchange a few words with several other witchers who’d apparently retired to quieter celebrations than the one below. That was fine; Ciri already had a pretty good idea where they were headed. And the door with the dent in the upper corner--the one Simon had described when inviting her to their room--down at the end of the hallway, was a little ajar. She could just see one playing card on the floor inside, like the deck had fallen out of a pocket. 

“There they are-- oh.”

Gregor loped after her, a moment too late. “Err, hold up-- ”

Well, Ciri had the right room, at least. 

And she had remembered correctly--the room was very small, with just space enough for a few chests and bags slung along the walls, a rough-hewn table currently crammed with alchemy supplies and a precariously-balanced bottle of mandrake cordial, a chair hung with doubled sword belts… and a rather large bed. The footboard of which Simon was clutching desperately, head bent between his shoulders, scars and skin gilded copper in the candlelight with every flex of corded muscle. 

And with him--over him--was Marrok. His shadow-tinted leather jerkin was tossed over a chest, but he still wore the matching breeches, just the front placket unlaced. Ciri’s breath caught in her throat. She knew she should back out, pretend she’d never been there--but she couldn’t seem to look away. The pair had obviously been… occupied for a little while; Marrok’s dark bronze skin was dewed with sweat as the two of them moved together in rhythmic urgency. And the _sounds_ Simon made, gasps of protest or pleasure or both at every hard stroke, wet and wanton, quick flashes of teeth…. 

Marrok looked… fierce, feral, covering Simon, one hand locked possessively around his waist, the other pulling at his cock. Just _taking_ him, in every sense of the word. The slap of leather on flesh grew more desperate. Marrok thrust hard, calves flexing with the effort--and then Simon stiffened with a hoarse cry, spurting between Marrok’s fingers as he came. 

Caught up in his own pleasure, Marrok pulled Simon backwards, maneuvering the other man as if it took no effort at all, driving in another few hard thrusts, then tensed, every muscle standing out in relief. Eyes slitting shut, Marrok took his own pleasure, filling Simon with his seed.

There was an endless moment, broken only by the heavy sounds of their breathing. Then Simon--still holding on to the footboard--lifted his head, twisting lazily to look at her, golden eyes half-lidded. “Hello,” he said with no trace of shame. “Have you both decided to join us after all?”

Ciri had thought she was fairly jaded in the ways of the world. Great Sun knew that the imperial court was full of exotic and inventive options. Men and women both, all physically perfect, scrubbed and perfumed, were available to her. There were even one or two whom she could trust not to use her favor for political gain. But. This. 

Nothing was hidden away here, neither scars nor strength, a tableau of visceral sensuality. Ciri knew she was blushing; her cheeks felt hot enough to burst into flame. Because she *knew* all three witchers could smell her own involuntary arousal. “I--uh …” 

“At the risk of sounding salacious,” Marrok said, slipping his hand from Simon’s cock to the back of his neck, as if to hold him in place, keep him from squirming away from the penetration still lodged deep in his belly. “Simon does have a very clever tongue. Shame not to put it to better use.” 

“No athletics, we promise,” Simon offered.

“Not for her,” Marrok corrected, pulling out slowly, eliciting a soft gasp of protest. He scooped up a strip of fabric, cleaning himself thoroughly. “ _Simon_ , on the other hand, could do with some tiring out.”

“Easier said than done, when everyone’s wearing too many clothes,” Simon groused, but only adjusted his stance a little, spreading his legs a bit wider where he stood bent over the foot of the bed. “Well, Gregor?”

And shit, she’d forgotten about Gregor. Ciri’s erstwhile guard looked back at her, hesitant, almost a little wary, like he wasn’t sure whether to flinch out of her way so she could storm out, or whether he expected--what _did_ he expect? That Ciri would flee like some skittish virgin? Or that she shared the irrational prejudices of most northerners? In hindsight, it made sense; Kaer Morhen housed more than fifty witchers--the reputation of whom wasn't entirely undeserved--every winter. Even considering the small village of support staff, Ciri should have expected at least some extracurricular activities. Considering that these witchers, at least, very clearly didn’t object to an extra observer, well … maybe the liquor was making this a much better idea than it should have been, but …. 

In the end, the decision wasn’t hard to make. Ciri stepped over the discarded playing cards. “Mind if I--take a seat?” she asked with a nod to the edge of the bed, managing to keep her voice fairly even, considering the circumstances.

“Please,” Simon said, as graciously as if he couldn’t hear Gregor exhale slowly, thickly, behind him. Gregor tugged the door firmly closed… and then started to unlace his own breeches. “A lady as talented and lovely as you shouldn’t have to stand around--”

“I already believe you have a clever tongue,” Ciri said, smiling, as Gregor came out of the shadows. “You don’t need to prove it.” 

“Hey, if ya got it, flaunt i--nnngh.” Simon gasped as Gregor moved in, closing one hand on his hip, and running a possessive hand over his ass. Already half-hard, Gregor rubbed his cock against the cleft. 

“You talk too much,” Gregor told him, stroking down the other man’s sides, lingering on all the rippled scars, then finally reaching up to pinch at his nipples. It was hard to tear her eyes away even long enough to make her way to the bed, but somehow Ciri managed. Moving in the tight and dimly-lit confines of the room without tripping over some pack of supplies or pile of books was tricky, and in the end Marrok had to help her sit with one hand under her elbow, setting aside the crutch where none of the room’s occupants were likely to bonk themselves with it. 

“I do agree with Simon on one thing,” he said, his gaze hot and intent. “You are wearing too many clothes. May I?”

Ciri reached out boldly, running fingertips over Marrok’s chest, still lightly dewed with sweat. Like most witchers, he had little in the way of body fat, his pectorals and abdominal muscles lean and well-defined. The Path was not a life conducive to soft hands or bellies … but right now, at least, Ciri could appreciate the result. “Please do,” she replied. How long had it been …? “I shouldn’t be the only one who gets to appreciate the view, after all,” she added cheekily, grinning. 

“Little chance of that,” Marrok replied, his hands sliding down her arms to span her waist, thumbs stroking. The rub of linen against sensitized skin was a lovely tease, and she arched into the touch, inviting more. “You are …” he breathed, fingers skimming upward to cup her breasts, squeezing gently, finding and rubbing over hardening nipples. “...Beautiful. Like no other woman I’ve seen.”

Ciri’s breath caught in her throat--her years at Kaer Morhen ensured she’d never have all the softness of a normal woman, the hourglass hips; she carried a little too much muscle, was too slim. And while she could never regret her body’s strength, its balance, speed… seeing how another found it beautiful as well…. Ciri swallowed, then cupped one hand over Marrok’s jawline, leaning forward to kiss him. The taste of his mouth was spiced with mandrake and vodka and everything she wanted, and she found herself greedy for more, tongue darting out to tangle with his, nipping at his bottom lip. With a low groan, Marrok loosened the ties of her tunic, dexterously drawing them free and pushing it up, breaking the kiss long enough to pull the linen over her head. She shivered at the sudden draft, nipples pebbling, and he kissed his way down her throat, licking, nipping at the line of her collarbone and down to the soft flesh of her breasts, rubbing his prickling-rough face against the pale skin. 

“Yes,” she gasped, pulling him downward with urgent strength, until he was kneeling between her knees. “More, yes, please …” Growling a little in satisfaction, Marrok caught one nipple between his lips, sucking hard--then bit down, just hard enough to add a frisson of almost-pain to the exquisite pull. A quiet sound escaped her throat, her thighs spreading wider as she tried to tug him closer, to get more of that pleasure. Marrok was all too happy to oblige, hands dark against her skin as he suckled fiercely, moving from one breast to the other, nipping small marks into her flesh. One calloused hand skimmed downward, found the buttons of her trousers, slipped them from the eyelets. Fabric now loosened, there was room for Marrok’s hands to stroke down her waist, shifting her hips forward. 

One last long, slow, nuzzling lick, and Marrok withdrew, hands curling slow warmth over her hips, urging her up just a little. Ciri barely had to put a hand on his shoulder to steady herself; Marrok did most of the lifting, swiftly stripping the trousers down almost to her knees with wrists and mouth before lowering her back to the laundered sheets. He kissed down her belly, teeth scraping just here and there, so lightly, even while his hands worked to slide one trouser leg off of her. The second took more time; Ciri expected some discomfort as he worked it down over the splint, but there was none--just the chilly prickle of air across her skin.

And then his mouth was just there, breath ruffling the pale curls of her mound. Marrok pressed close, _inhaled_ , like he was savoring her very scent. With a quick glance up, a flash of brilliant gold in the candlelight, he spread his lips for her.

And oh--oh. Ciri knew full well how good sorceresses were at this--fifty or a hundred years of practice did indeed make perfect--but somehow she hadn’t expected… expected a witcher to devote himself to this particular art. Not quite. Like. This. Slow little sucking pulls, tongue touching each side of her clit until he found just the right places to make her tremble, just the right rhythm, punctuated with long, lapping strokes, humming purrs against her. And oh, the scar that crossed his lip, when he dragged it over her, soft and rough at the same time….

The whole world felt like it moved to the careful attention lavished on her, and Ciri had to lie back, belly hollowing, just to _feel,_ to luxuriate in the waves of sensation. 

Simon was down on his elbows now, gasping as Gregor worked him back to full hardness with slow, tight-fisted strokes. Gregor’s own cock pressed hard and weeping against the paler witcher’s hip. He was thick, and very ready. “Hey, I was going to--” Simon protested, looking over Ciri’s splayed body, at Marrok’s place between her spread thighs. Marrok mock-growled in reply, the vibrations shuddering all up through her. 

Gregor splayed a hand against the back of Simon’s neck, “--quit talking and take it?” he finished for the other witcher, pushing him inexorably down to pin him against the bed just beside Ciri. From this angle, she had an uninterrupted view: Simon’s skin all tiger-striped with scars, his jumping muscles as he flexed in challenge--Gregor adjusting his cock, putting the head just there.... 

...she watched, shuddering with her own pleasure as Gregor sank in, the head of his cock impaling Simon’s body. Simon jerked against it. “Fuck, you’re big,” he hissed, even as he pushed back greedily, fingers twisting in the sheets at the foot of the bed as he was taken for the second time. Gregor lingered, savoring the tightness as his cock was engulfed, inch by inch in clinging heat, controlling Simon’s attempts to speed the penetration with practiced ease. 

“Damn you, you whoreson, move!” Simon growled, twisting in frustrated need, cock hard and untouched between his thighs. Gregor only chuckled and slowed even further, hands iron-hard on Simon’s hip and back as the other witcher panted and pleaded. It was sweaty, primal, the scent of sex saturating the room, and Ciri wanted nothing more than to reach out, to touch and possess them both …

… and then Marrok apparently decided she wasn’t paying enough attention to him, as he licked deep into her folds, sucking on her clit, one hand dipping lower to tease at her, two fingers slicking through her juices, just the tips dipping inside. Her breath stuttering, Ciri arched helplessly upward. She was too close to the edge as it was, sensation building on sensation, insides tightening, and Marrok wasn’t stopping, was sucking *harder*, as if determined to devour her whole--and then she came, writhing, clutching desperately at Marrok’s shoulders, his hair, knowing Simon and Gregor were there, watching as she came undone.

Marrok lifted his head, his gaze heated as she shuddered through the clenching aftershocks. She lay on the bed afterwards, panting, fingers still stroking his shoulders, mapping the scars there by touch. Next to them, Gregor had set up a slow, steady rhythm, the sound of their bodies together counterpoint to their panted breaths, his cock slick with oil and Marrok’s seed as he sank balls-deep with every stroke. Beneath him, Simon’s face was a drawn mask of agonized pleasure, guttural groans escaping from his throat with every thrust, his cock painfully hard, bobbing in the air, untouched. “Just sublime,” she husked, turning to meet Marrok’s intent gaze, meaning it. Each so different, the lives they had led mapped upon their very skin … they were all beautiful, lean muscle and scarred flesh, gentleness and ferocity evident in every touch of those calloused hands. “All of you,” she added, pushing herself upright and drawing him upwards, kissing, tasting herself. “Are amazing … I want to touch, please. Let me see you …” 

Marrok deepened the kiss, one hand kneading her breast, flicking a nipple. “You are …” he growled in her mouth. Then he pushed himself to his feet, fingers on the placket of his trousers. Impatient, Ciri reached out, batting them away. 

“Allow me,” she ordered, putting a hint of command in her voice. Much to her surprise, Marrok shivered, immediately dropping his hands away. _Ah, so... like that, is it?_ She could definitely work with this … Marrok hadn’t had the opportunity to re-lace after his earlier round with Simon, and she could see the line of his cock pushing against the loose leather, more than half-hard already. Ciri reached out, pulling him closer, until he was straddling her thighs, and she could nuzzle at that tempting prize. The scent of leather, musk and sweat was heady; she blew teasingly at the little bit of exposed skin and dark curls, pleased when the skin above rose in goose pimples at the sensation. Then she nosed deeper, nudging the leather aside with lips and nose and teeth a little at a time, licking wet kisses onto each new exposed bit of velvet skin. 

Above her, Marrok’s breath shuddered and jolted with each new touch, every exhale, his hands stroking lightly over her hair as if afraid to grip too hard. And admittedly, she wasn’t a witcher, but still--Ciri wasn’t _that_ breakable. Could she make him forget his iron control? It was an intriguing thought, and Ciri gave the slightest scrape of teeth over the leather-confined flesh. 

It drew a high-pitched sound from the witcher, something midway between a gasp and a whine. Wanting to hear it again, Ciri eased him out, spacing her kisses this time with nips, careful sharp-edged little scrapes, or just letting the curve of her teeth brush cool slickness against skin. And Marrok made that sound again, as eager for those flashes of too-sharp sensation as he was for the softer kind. His flanks shivered under Ciri’s hands as she stroked down his hips, fingertips lingering over all the stitched panels of his thin armor. But his hands never trembled--and if anything, his touch was even lighter on her hair, just petting her, palms open. 

Ciri slipped one hand to stroke slowly down his freed shaft, sliding her fingertips down under the softest skin of all, cradling the swell of Marrok’s balls. “Hands behind your head,” Ciri purred, lipping each word against the fine skin of his shaft, until she finished the last with a sucking kiss to the tip of his weeping cock.

“Oh, Melitele,” Marrok hissed, eyes squeezing shut. And he obeyed, pressing his wrists against the back of his neck without hesitation, thick muscles jumping under her hand at thigh and hip. Gorgeous. He held his core stable, unmoving, even though the effort it took was clear. 

In this place, this time, there was no need to wait for spies to trace the history of her prospective partner, for sorcerers to scan for weapons or contagions, to scan even their thoughts for any hint of false intentions. No need to consider consequences, the political implications of her choice ... she could just do this. Whatever she wanted. It was … arousing, unexpectedly compelling. Ciri licked her lips, then leaned forward that last fraction of an inch, and closed them around Marrok’s cock. His taste was musky, like the smell of winter honeycomb, clean--something in the oil he’d been using before, perhaps? And the choking little sobs of sound he made, the heaving flex of his belly as she ran the edge of her tongue around the head of him, sucking and lapping… oh yes, that was quite compelling as well. 

“Nnggh--please, I--” Marrok whispered at last, gritting his teeth, swallowing hard. 

Beside her, pinned down on the sheets, Simon was not nearly so shy, hoarsely alternating demands and pleas as Gregor ploughed him steadily, like a field left fallow three winters. Ciri pulled away from Marrok with one last lick, considering her work. His cock was erect and slick, and it was hard to resist the urge to keep going, push him farther. Desperation was a damn fine look on both witchers, but … perhaps some mercy was in order. “Not yet,” Ciri purred, breathing cool air over Marrok’s wet cock. “I want you in me.”

A full-body shudder rippled through Marrok’s frame at those words, eyes gleaming in the flickering light. He lowered his hands, leaning down--then paused. “I … shouldn’t--” 

Ciri was wet, her insides clenching with need--she reached for his scar-crossed shoulders, pulling him down even as she worked to scoot herself backward. “I won’t break,” she said fiercely. “Marrok. I want you to fuck me.” 

With a groan, he dived downward, covering her mouth with his in a fierce, desperate kiss. Marrok wrapped one hand at her back, the other under her ass, lifting her, easing her to lie across the bed as if she weighed nothing at all. She spread her thighs, welcoming him--and he curled his forearm under her bent knee, carefully holding her splinted leg at an angle, so as not to jar it. For all his ardor, every movement had an aching care about it, his strength carefully restrained. He lined up his cock, brushing it against her folds--then, with a throttled groan, entered her, sinking deep in one long, delicious stroke. “Oh Great--gods,” she gasped, choking back the betraying curse just in time. “Oh yes, just like that, Marrok, please …” He was thick and hard inside her, laying claim to every inch. Every part of her had already been sensitized by her earlier orgasm, and now this was … it was amazing, she could feel the tremble as Marrok shook, hanging on to his own control by the finest of threads. 

“Alright?” he managed.

Ciri basked in the feel of him in her, his firm length twitching. Her leg didn’t ache at all, but in this position, he could go as deep as he wanted, and there was little she could do about it … and that thought made another delicious frisson of sensation cascade over her skin, her walls clamping down on his cock. “Y-yes--more!”

“As you wish,” Marrok said hoarsely--and then he began to _move._ Slow, deep thrusts at first, withdrawing almost completely before sinking back in, filling her up, all the way to the hilt. But his own need soon built, his rhythm speeding, his thrusts more fervent. He watched her, eyes hot and intent, sharing her pleasure and alert for any sign of discomfort. 

Next to them, Simon was begging. “Gregor, c’mon please, touch me--fuck, let me touch myself, you won’t even have to--let me come, damn you, I’m going to go crazy--”

Gregor finally gave Simon what he needed, reaching around and taking his cock in hand. The rhythm of thrusts never faltered as he began to brutally stroke Simon’s cock, pulling at the rigid length. “Give it up for me, Simon,” he growled. “Come on--you can take it, I know you can--” He shoved deep as Simon twisted, moaning half-incoherent words into the bedding … and then Simon tipped over the edge, howling as he came, seed spurting over the linens, the sharp scent saturating the air. Growling, Gregor redoubled his efforts, gripping Simon tight enough that any normal man would have bruises painted across his skin.

Ciri gasped, cried out, nails catching on the scars that crossed Marrok’s back as he drove her mad with that white-hot sensation. She could feel herself clench down on him, blazingly pleasureable. And Simon’s cries as Gregor just--just used him hard, she could almost feel him shudder as Gregor pistoned into him, every impalement on full display, arrhythmic counterpoint to the rolling thrusts into her. 

Pleasure broke over her--she couldn’t even be sure if she was coming, Marrok just kept riding her through each rippling clench, overstimulating, winding her tighter. All it took then was a change in rhythm, a few more hard grinding thrusts, and she couldn’t hold on, blindsided by pleasure, plunging into an abyss she hadn’t even known was coming. One more thrust, and then Marrok climaxed, emptying hot seed into her, pressed to the hilt.

It took a while for the haze to clear, after that. 

Still breathing heavily, awash in warm satisfaction, Ciri blinked up as Marrok slowly withdrew from her. Even lost in pleasure, he’d not put his weight on her. Handling her leg with care, he settled it gently to the bed. Simon lay collapsed across the sheets next to her, close enough to reach out and touch; only Gregor’s grip on his hip seemed to keep him from puddling right off the foot of the bed. 

“Alright?” Marrok asked, watching her. Ciri managed a rather stunned nod.

Simon stirred, tried twice to get an elbow under him, finally had to settle for just looking up. His golden eyes followed the curve of her--lingering on the point of her hip, her arm, the places Marrok had held--almost like he was checking her for bruises, Ciri realized, even though _he_ was the one who’d been ploughed senseless. Simon met her eyes, licked his lips. “So. About that offer…” 

It took Ciri a couple of moments to remember the one he meant. Once she did, though, she couldn’t keep breathless little jolts of laughter from bubbling up. And to think she’d lumped the wilder stories about a witcher’s stamina in with all the other rumors!

“Incorrigible,” Gregor bestirred himself, giving Simon’s ass a swat as he withdrew. 

“You are only jealous,” Simon told him, gasping a little as that thick cock pulled free. “Jealous of all the ancient Zerrikanian cunnulingus techniques I learned from the thirty-two maiden priestesses of Shar-kar, in the great tent at--”

Marrok eyed Simon. “These are all lies,” he told Ciri, in a whisper meant to be anything but secret.

“Maybe so,” Ciri grinned, finally finding the coordination to stretch slowly, beads of sweat prickling cool on her overheated skin. “Really should find out, though, don’t you think?”

******

What followed were probably the most self-indulgent hours Ciri could remember. Ever. When she was so wrung out she couldn’t even bring herself to move, she could still sip from a cup of that very good mandrake cordial and watch.... watch as both the other witchers took Simon, his lips stretched wide around Gregor, even as Marrok drove into his ass. Then there was more pleasure, Ciri on her side while Simon lapped at her clit, supporting her leg, and Gregor eased into her from behind, kissing her shoulders and throat--

Eventually, Ciri was cognizant of being lifted, held with care, while someone changed the bedsheets, then wiped her down with warm water and laid her on the clean linen. When she finally slept, as exhausted as if she’d just run the killer trail twice, she didn’t even need a blanket; the witchers were like banked human hearthfires around her. 

Her last thought was that she was probably safer here than in the middle of her most ferociously loyal military division. 

She woke up thirsty, with a headache. 

It took a few moments to remember where she was. The midmorning sun seemed too bright through the one tiny window. The room had been tidied, her clothes folded and left on the lone chair… and it was also empty, although someone had thoughtfully left a pitcher of cold water on the side table. With a quiet groan, Ciri sat up, drank, washed her face, and then set about pulling on some pants. 

Having at least prevailed in her sartorial battles, Ciri grabbed her crutch and headed out. Still couldn’t quite put her full weight on the leg, but the night’s activities clearly hadn’t made anything wors--

\--and directly outside the door, she found Gregor leaning against the wall. He had an arm thrown over his face, the back of his head tilted against the cool stone wall. Ciri studied him, not sure if he was, err, meditating? Standing up? “You drink too much too?”

Gregor winced and mutely nodded.

“Ah.” There were a number of very good reasons that Ciri didn’t touch white gull. Poor Gregor. “Still stuck guarding me?”

“...we haven’t been told to stop,” Gregor said finally, arm still over his eyes.

“We?”

Gregor’s voice was rough. “Dorek at night. Me, day.”

Dorek. The witcher who’d been… oh. “He ever find a deck of cards?” Ciri hadn’t brought any back, after all. She’d been pretty busy, in her defense. 

Gregor gave a one-shouldered shrug, gestured at the spot where he was standing.

It took a few moments for Ciri to work out the meaning of that. “You mean he...stood guard? Outside this door?”

Gregor nodded.

Ciri scrubbed a hand over her face. Well. So much for hoping the evening’s indiscretions might go unnoticed amidst the general drunkenness. Not that she could really muster up the energy to feel guilty at the moment. “There any breakfast left?”

Gregor moved his arm just enough to shoot her a look out of one bloodshot eye. Ciri winced--probably shouldn’t have mentioned food--but it was too late now. And _she_ was hungry, at least. “Come on,” she told him. “On duty or not, a little of the hair of the wolf that bit you might do you some good.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand thanks to Fen_Assan for the fantastic beta! Any remaining mistalkes are our own.

“So,” said Ciri, slicing off a generous hunk of kielbasa--as it turned out, there was plenty of breakfast left, because most of the witchers were still suffering the aftereffects of last night, and as a result were interested in little more than plain porridge--”anyone want to tell me why Edik is wearing gauzy silver braies?” The underthings were, in and of themselves, a work of beauty--obviously very expensive and more than a little see-through, with plenty of lace and cloth-of-silver gathered in artful ruffles at knees and waist. Ciri was definitely appreciating the view they afforded her. That didn’t mean she wasn’t also curious as to why Edik was wearing them to breakfast, especially since the witcher in question was otherwise unshaven and slumped over the table, forehead braced against the worn wood.

“... mrbgl,” was Edik’s eloquent answer. 

“Lost a bet, I think,” Simon said, one of the few who seemed little worse for the wear, although he was sporting a truly epic case of bedhead. He reached out and snagged another chunk of smoked sheep's milk cheese. “With Almeric, wasn’t it?”

“Something about whether Almeric was too drunk to put two javelins through a cabbage before it hit the ground, if someone chucked it off the library tower?” said another witcher from the next table over. 

“Alright, fair enough. But where did Edik even _get_ them?” Ciri asked. Sexy undergarments weren’t exactly the kind of thing that she’d expect a witcher to have floating around in his saddlebags.

“Oh, they aren’t Edik’s. They belong to Almeric,” Simon said brightly.

“Wait--what?” Ciri blinked, and had to put her smallbeer down for a moment as her worldview rearranged itself. Admittedly, she hadn’t spent much time with Almeric since her rather unconventional arrival, but she had a hard time imagining the terse, reserved man as the kind of person who acquired such things. Or, for that matter, wore them. 

“Got ‘em from an Ofieri merchant,” Jacek put in. The dark-skinned witcher was resolutely ignoring the food in favor of his tankard of diluted white honey, his eyes bloodshot. “Almeric pulled him out of a nekker den, and the merchant insisted on giving a reward. Didn’t have much left in the way of goods, though, or money for that matter. Said these were the finest thing he had.” He squinted at Edik. “Still not sure they’re actually meant for a man, though …”

“Well, you wear them very well, regardless,” Ciri told Edik, patting one shoulder comfortingly. Edik muttered something uncomplimentary into the table and flopped a hand in her direction. She helpfully pushed a mug of smallbeer into it.

“Well now, here are just the men I have been looking for!” boomed Frederic as he pushed open one of the big wooden doors, letting in a shaft of unforgiving sunlight. Witchers in varying states of disarray winced away or covered their eyes. Gregor, not doing much better than Edik, clasped his head in his hands.

“We have a dilemma, my brothers--a true emergency. Every pot and pan in the kitchen is still as black as Dean’s soul, you see. I’m sure you all agree that this state of affairs is obviously unacceptable at our fine institution. But ho, I do believe I have laid eyes on five strapping volunteers!” Ciri blinked up as Frederic cast a gimlet eye over the little grouping. The eldest witcher at Kaer Morhen--that she had met, anyway--clearly hadn’t over-indulged last night. Or if he had, he’d planned ahead and had a vial of white honey handy. “All right, you pups have had your fun. Time to get scrubbing!”

Edik pillowed his head on his arms. “... ’e gotta be so loud ...?” was all Ciri could make out from the muffled reply, aimed mostly at the table.

Frederic obviously heard it as well. “No, boy, it’s entirely voluntary. Now, less whining, more working,” he announced, merciless in his cheer. “Hup, hup! Double time! You too, Gregor.” 

Ciri eased her leg over the bench, reaching for her crutch to join the scullery party--only to have Frederic’s hand land on her shoulder. “But not Falka. Sebastian wants a word.”

Gregor froze, even as the rest of their little breakfast group obediently headed--or staggered--back towards the kitchens. Edik’s silver braies billowed regally with each halting step, Ciri couldn’t help but notice. Gregor cleared his throat. “Grandmaster--”

“Turning into a proper broody hen, I see,” Frederic remarked, and from the glint in his eye, Ciri was pretty sure he knew about their … recreational activities, last night. “Don’t fret, we’ll have her back under your wing before you’re finished. Get on with you.” Gregor gave Ciri an indecipherable look, but obeyed, heading reluctantly towards the kitchens.

“Should I be worried?” Ciri asked, scooping up her crutch and climbing slowly to her feet. Frederic appeared to be more amused than upset at the debauching of her erstwhile guard, but she had a feeling there was more going on here than met the eye. Had the senior witchers decided to subject her to a more direct kind of interrogation? Emhyr would have long before now, she knew.

“Only if the alchemical arts make you nervous. Sebastian’s been nipping our ankles since you arrived; wants to make sure you didn’t crack your ribs or skull any worse than we knew.”

“Not to mention check me over for illusions, hexes, curses, or any other nasty magical surprises?” Ciri said pointedly, following along as Frederic headed for the rear of the main hall. Because if that wasn’t the principal concern here, she’d eat her scepter. Truthfully, she was surprised they’d waited this long to do it.

Frederick gave a huff. “Well, yes,” he said easily. “Can you blame us? Surely you’re curious as well about what spell sent you here. Although, if you are in fact a doppler or operating under a geas, it might be better to let us know now.” The warning was mild, but Ciri noted it nonetheless. 

“Still nothing to report, I’m afraid.” Everything Ciri wore was imbued with minor strengthening, cleaning, or protective charms--all standard for the imperial wardrobe. But she’d mostly swapped out her own clothing for looser items the witchers had on hand, and anyway, such small spellworks were both obvious and common. The medallion she still wore was certainly not unusual, not here. There wasn’t anything else about her that a detection spell should be able to find; the Elder Blood wasn’t even magical, technically speaking. “And you’re right--I would like to know. As much as I appreciate how well I’ve been treated here, I will eventually need to return home, and it would help to have an explanation for my absence.”

Frederic watched her. “Fair enough. This way, then.”

It didn’t take long to figure out where they were headed. Fortunately, the crutch and her limp concealed the hitch in her step pretty well as the twisting staircase leading down to the bowels of Kaer Morhen--and to the laboratory--came into view. “I can manage, never fear,” Ciri said, forcing herself to smile as Frederic paused at the top of the stairs, obviously weighing her mobility against the steep descent. 

Navigating the stairs on her own gave her more time to compose herself, anyway. The air down here was humid and cool, saturated with scents Ciri couldn’t identify. Small oil lamps hung on the walls--a few still burned physical fuel, although most seemed merely to serve as convenient anchors for coldly-glowing magelights. The intricately-worked gate to the main laboratory, rusted into ruin by Ciri’s time, was closed, a deceptively delicate barrier. Without any lights in the chamber beyond, it was impossible to make out the room’s contents. The few shadowed contours betrayed nothing of the crowded shelves of supplies that Ciri remembered, the curved knives and needles, the strange retorts and banks of equipment… or the latticed, human-shaped metal tables with their restraints. Taking care not to betray any special interest in that particular room, Ciri limped along after Frederic, following the tall hallway around to the right. It, at least, was well-illuminated, the stones scrubbed rather than coated with the dust of decades.

Elven figures still decorated the great archway that led to the chamber of whispering stones. The stones marked a friendly little upwelling of magical energy, a minor place of power. This particular one wasn’t much more than a trickle but, emitting power at a fair range, it sufficed for most of the spells a witcher school might need. It was probably the reason Kaer Morhen had been built in this particular spot in the first place. Yen and Triss had both spent some time here preparing for the battle against the Wild Hunt, drawing heavily from the magical font for weeks beforehand in order to fuel their far more complex spells. 

Normally a quiet place of meditation, now the chamber resonated with the clattering sound of metal on rock. “Oh, oh yes--wait, no. That’s not right at all--” Sebastian’s voice faded into half-audible commentary, punctuated by more clattering as Frederic and Ciri stepped inside. They stopped short, as it soon became clear there was little in the way of safe places to put their feet.

“I sincerely hope you don’t intend me to stand in the middle of all that,” Ciri said doubtfully. The entire sunken center of the floor was covered in chalk markings. Bits of colored string, glued to the floor with candles at the points, mapped out a hexagram--meant for divination, then, not a pentagram for locking something in. But that was little enough comfort, given the multitude of other runes inscribed everywhere, including every elemental rune she recognized, and a great number she didn’t. Magnification, reflection--but directed outward? It must have taken days to draw all these magical branchings and safeguards. The whispering stones that marked this place of power presided over the whole mess, something in their quiet hum seeming to hint at a certain long-suffering patience. 

“Oh! Oh no, definitely not!” Sebastian hiked up his robes to step carefully over a lotus-like mandala, reinforcing runes all whorling around a central Yrden, as if someone expected an entire graveyard full of wraiths to come bursting in. “Now where did I--ah ha!” Proudly, he plucked a little three-legged stool from the edge of the room and shuffled back over to set it in the center of the--whatever this was. “You can sit. Right here, please. No, no--right… ah. Right here. Or maybe over there?”

“Sebastian--” Rennes grated from the shadows. Ciri jumped. She hadn’t even _seen_ him there, leaned up against a wall, as still as a gargoyle. Rennes du Pont Vanis, the one-armed witcher, who liked Ciri very little… and who seemed to be in charge around here. Also, he would apparently be overseeing this ‘examination’.

Well, that wasn’t ominous at _all_.

“Why don’t you explain what all of this fuckery actually does, Sebastian,” Frederic said lightly, watching Ciri shift her weight back. “The short version.”

“Oh, but it’s simple!” Sebastian hurried to point out several tiny mounds of--was that powdered fifth essence?--heaped at the junctures of certain chalk lines, nearly tripping over his stool in the process. “Once the spell is activated, this node will illuminate if you’re a first order pesta. And this one will detect if you’re actively under the thrall of a higher vampire, while this one here--”

“ _A plague maiden?_ ” said Ciri, incredulous.

Rennes pinched the bridge of his nose. Ciri got the impression that he ended up doing that a lot, especially when dealing with their resident mage. “Just the parts we discussed, Sebastian,” he snarled. 

“Oh. Oh yes.” Sebastian fisted his hands on his hips, enthusiasm apparently not dampened at all. “Right. Well, we have the thaumaturgical conduits first, you see right here, demarcated by these glyphs. Bone integrity indicators--set for a woman of the appropriate size and apparent age, naturally--and then the neurological, endocrine, cardiovascular, respiratory, digestive, reproductive, and muscular organ systems. Your general health suite, right? This way we can read the results before we trigger the next set. Then those conduits will pick up and amplify any remnant traces of spellworks, for detection at these terminals over here, where resulting fractures in the crystals will indicate the fundamental nature of the magic that was used--” 

“... this is the short version?” Ciri muttered to Frederic, who snorted.

“For Sebastian it is. He does love an audience.” 

Rennes certainly didn’t seem pleased about _being_ that audience. Ciri couldn’t help but note that he was wearing reinforced leather armor, and the hilts of both swords, silver and steel, were visible over his left shoulder. “And… I gather that you’ll go ahead and assume I’m actually a pesta slathered in an entire vat of glamour, if I refuse?” Ciri asked, a little dryly, jerking her chin at the tangled spell lines. 

“Well--to be perfectly honest, it’d raise some questions--the kind that would need answers. Besides, nothing in this process should harm you, even if you do have an invisible entourage of plague rat minions.” Frederic said easily, propping one shoulder against the entrance to the chamber. Which didn’t actually tell Ciri whether they were willing to force this little exam, although she certainly appreciated the effort being applied to talk her into it. 

“If you do, we’ll give you a head start,” Rennes grated, expressionless. 

Sebastian’s monologue trailed off. “Oh? Ah, that was definitely a joke. I think.” 

Ciri rather doubted it.

“Not helpful, Rennes.” Frederic said, giving the other man an exasperated look. He crossed his arms, unsubtly changing the subject. “Right! Shall we get started? Falka here isn’t getting any younger. Not to mention those spell traces aren’t getting any stronger, you know.”

“What? Oh, yes, very correct! We should certainly start before the sun reaches its zenith. Astronomical movements have a distinct effect on delicate spellworks such as these, and can skew the results, I’ve found,” Sebastian said, switching tracks with no sign he noticed the tension. “If you will sit here, Miss Falka?”

Ciri figured that ‘I had some really bad experiences with mages, and also the Empress of Nilfgaard doesn’t just hop into any weird-looking spell laid out in front of her’ wasn’t going to garner much traction with this crowd. Still, she had nothing to hide--well, nothing that Sebastian was likely to detect, anyway. And if this was actually a clever trap, as unlikely as the notion was… there really weren’t any cages that could hold her, not anymore. “Fine. This has to be more interesting than scrubbing pots, right?” said Ciri finally, hobbling over the outer ring of glyphs.

“Please mind your feet, yes, just avoid that candle there … right. There you are. Now please stay as still as possible, especially for these initial calibrations.” 

Perched awkwardly on the stool, her splinted leg propped forward and crutch leaning against her side, Ciri gave the oblivious alchemist a wry look. “I’ll do my best.” 

The first thirty minutes of the testing was little more than an exercise in tedium, at least for Ciri. Sebastian chanted incantations, gesturing sharply at intervals. She could feel the magical energies he was using rippling through the air, and Vesemir’s medallion vibrated from time to time at her hip in response. But other than some glowing glyphs and a few popping tongues of flame that sprang up as different alchemical ingredients ignited and melded into the substance of the spell, there was little else to be seen, and nothing at all that seemed to affect her directly. 

“Ah ha!” Sebastian finally announced, much too loudly, startling Ciri out of the yawn she was trying not to show. Rennes shifted his weight forward, just a fraction, as the silence stretched.

“You’re a perfectly healthy woman, in the prime of your childbearing window, ovulating tomorrow. Human with distant elvish heritage, stressful youth,” the mage concluded. “But!” he pointed an ink-stained finger at the flagstones, “your leg is broken.”

The two witchers exchanged glances.

Ciri rubbed her forehead. “Great. Well gentlemen, as enlightening as all this has been--”

“Another few moments, if you please.” Sebastian lifted his hands. “Deprehendere-augeo rursus!”

The entire complex web ignited. All in a great rush, each chalk line lifted up, drawing with it a ribbon of multihued flame, a twisting network of softly glowing curtains a hand wide, hovering six inches off the ground. The slow-drifting kaleidoscope of ribbons lit the room in a shimmering cascade of rainbow color. Squinting against the glare, Ciri could still feel the ambient energies of the standing stones bow under the sudden load, straining to meet the demands of this spell. 

But it wasn’t just the complexity of Sebastian’s casting that was causing the drawdown--there was something else. Within moments, it was clear that something was wrong … because every colored ribbon of light that touched her was blackening, twisting and writhing.

The contagion spread, inky violet-black light racing along the warding lines. Every juncture the darkness gripped let the shadow branch outwards, the thin curtains of light curling and _rusting_ as if they had physical form. As if they smoldered to cinders, everywhere the black haze touched.

Alarmed, Frederic pushed himself away from the wall, and Rennes had his hand on the hilt of his silver sword, though he hadn’t yet pulled it free. For her part, Ciri was too startled to move as the violet-black energies hit the first indicator crystal, which promptly exploded. Ciri ducked as tiny shards flew in all directions, chiming against walls and floor. Then the crystal next to it detonated, and the next, shattering one after the other as if they were cheap glass rather than stone, overloaded by the influx of malevolent energies. Black smoke-like tendrils began to seep upward from the tainted lines. The Yrden sigils, so carefully reinforced, were flickering now, swallowed by the darkness. She could feel the whispering stones struggling, their tiny seep of magical energy hopelessly inadequate to fuel Sebastian’s elaborate layered wards against parasitic, baleful energies such as these …

…and it was like catching a falling vase, like seeing a stockade about to tip backwards; there was no time to think, only to act. Like Yen had taught her, like setting her shoulder against a teetering wall, Ciri grabbed hold of her power and _pushed._

There was no time to be subtle, or delicate; Ciri was no sorceress, had no ability to tweak or reweave the spells around her. All she had was brute force, adding her magic, her will, into the spell, swamping the flow provided by the whispering stones. Her power spilled into the choppy magical heave, into the layered protective runes and connecting lines, punching through the remnant contagion. 

Against it, the directionless remnants of evil intent didn’t stand a chance. They cauterized away, the darkness shredding into flaming nothing as the entire spellweaving blazed up, shrugging the purple-black taint away. This time, however, the net kindled with the actinic white-green of Ciri’s own power, the raw magic within her that paired with the elder blood and bent space and time to her will. The entire chamber was lit with it, too bright to see. The whispering stones at its heart flamed in response, like calling to like, all for a few brief moments.

Then it ended. Ciri released her grasp on the power, letting it subside. The spellweave sank back to its chalk lines on the flagstones. Vesemir’s amulet fell still, quieting against her leg. The blinding light faded, and as Ciri blinked the sunspots from her eyes… she found herself looking right at Sebastian’s stunned, awestruck face.

_Oh. Fuck._

Rennes took a step forward, sword singing a high silver note as he pulled it free from its scabbard. The blade was slim and curved, a wicked smile of metal honed razor sharp. “Sebastian,” he grated, but his golden eyes were intent on her, and Ciri froze. “Talk fast. What in all the icy hells was that?”

Ciri glanced over at Frederic, who was standing poised at the other side of the circle, still guarding the entrance. His face was grim as he watched them all, but he made no attempt to intervene.

“She’s a _Source,_ ” Sebastian breathed, awestruck, reverential. And covetous. 

Other mages, the Aen Elle, they’d wanted her too--for what she was, not who. And they’d looked at her like that. Ciri curled her fingers around the crutch. _Never again._

“Mn. A Source.” Frederic toed through the crystal shards littering the floor, each of the fragments stained ink-black. “And that caused all this, did it?”

“Is she a threat?” Rennes demanded, before Sebastian could answer. 

“What? No, of course not! Just the opposite, in fact.” Sebastian didn’t even look to the witchers. “The dark effects were merely the remnants of the last spell she’d been exposed to. Someone obviously wanted to kill her. But you can’t imagine-- The sheer _waste_ of losing this, it’s… you have no idea how much power-- There at the end, the wards were drawing _solely_ from her energies. You both saw the magnitu--”

“Back up a moment there, Sebastian,” Frederic folded downward, settling into a witcher’s easy crouch, and flipped over a larger fragment of black crystal with the tip of a dagger. Ciri hadn’t even seen him draw it. “You said one of these might show some cracks. Maybe two.”

“I--yes, yes. Wanted her dead _badly,_ then. Listen, with this kind of power--the greatest mages in history either were Sources or had one bound to them--Alzur, Malaspina, Raffard the White--a Source like this, that much energy, it would revolutionize--”

“Sebastian. Focus.” Rennes snapped. “How badly?”

“Wh--” The mage had to visibly drag his attention away from Ciri, even for a moment. “...very. This curse wasn’t intended just to kill,” he gestured to where the first crystal had been, its place still visible in the radiating scorch marks, “but also cripple, drive mad, dispel any beneficial wards, poison, infect with disease, silence--” each apparently had its allotted set of crystals, now just streaks of ash and fragments “--and paralyze. Overkill, really, and that kind of complexity is very hard to get right, since the conditionals can easily interfere with each other--but then, given a Source’s magical resilience, the caster might have thought--hm. But for a spell to leave traces this potent after almost three days, for all of those, it would take… the energy of several lives, or months of drawing from another strong Source, or a dji--”

“There anything left of the curse?” Frederic interrupted. 

“N-no--if this didn’t exhaust the remnants, they’ll evaporate within--look, never mind the curse.” Sebastian clenched his fists. “She is a _Source._ A place of power in human form, her very bones imbued with more magical energy than--to even think what it would do for my--” He stopped, started again, words tumbling over each other, his voice rising eagerly. “Just think--by tapping it, we could enchant every blade and piece of armor here, to say nothing of what it would do for the--it wouldn’t even harm her. Not permanently, not if we’re careful. With the proper restraints--I’ll only need the tank and enough vital fluid for--”

“I am not. An. Experiment.” Gritting her teeth, Ciri pushed herself slowly to her feet. A leather-padded stick wasn’t any kind of defense against a witcher’s blade, standing or sitting. But she could teleport faster if she were upright, could hit the ground moving when she landed. She knew where Kaer Morhen’s armory was. She’d have to hope no one was there, and then find Zireael if she could. Otherwise, she’d have to leave the blade behind. She’d likely have less than a minute before more witchers started looking for her, and once they did--she could probably evade one or two with short-range jumps, but-- 

“No.” The answer was immediate, flat, uncompromising--and it had come from Rennes. Ciri stilled in surprise, her attention caught by the flat rejection in the set of headmaster’s mouth, the cold gaze that--for once--wasn’t meant for her. Rennes fixed Sebastian with a hard stare, unyielding in its authority. “Absolutely not. The rules haven’t changed, mage. No experiments on humans. Not unless she agrees--and even then, not until we authorize it.” 

“But, but …” Sebastian sputtered. “All that _potential_ …”

“No. If you can convince her, then we’ll consider it. We’re done here.” Rennes sheathed his blade and turned away from the mage. He gave Ciri an indecipherable look as he passed, but said nothing, heading down the hallway to the stairs. 

“Frederic,” Sebastian began to plead, his frustration plain to see, “Surely you can recognize the benefits--” But Frederic was already shaking his head.

“You know the rules, Master Sebastian. ‘Sides, Rennes is stubborn as a mule and twice as mean. There’s no point asking me to try and change his mind,” he said, pushing himself to his feet and sheathing his dagger. Stepping into the shambles of Sebastian’s spell with a crunch of crystal under boot, he held out a hand to Ciri. “Let’s go, Falka. It looks like Sebastian here is going to have quite the mess to clean up.”

“... right,” Ciri said, still a bit off-balance at the unexpected outcome to Sebastian’s discovery. Maybe the witchers of this age didn’t trust mages quite as much as she had first believed. 

With Frederic’s assistance, she managed to make it back to the chamber entrance without incident, despite the new debris underfoot. They began the slow trek up the stairs, and once out of earshot, Ciri paused. Taking a moment to catch her breath, she said slowly, “I must admit, I never expected Rennes to speak up for me. Not like that.”

Frederic studied her. “Rennes might be a suspicious bastard, but no matter what outsiders say, we’re not monsters. We don’t throw innocents to the wolves--or give them over to mages unwilling and unsupervised, for that matter.” He shrugged, his expression dark and resigned. “Though few enough would believe that.” 

How many times had she seen people spit on Geralt’s shadow, or heard peasants and nobles alike muttering ‘freak’ and ‘baby-thief’ as he passed? Too many to count, and it appeared this era was no different. “I--” _I believe it,_ she would have said, but her throat closed hard. Because. Because she _hadn’t_ , had she? 

Sebastian was right, after all. A better font of magic here probably could benefit the witchers, all apart from whatever ‘improvements’ having such a thing might theoretically make to the Trials. And Ciri… just for a moment, she hadn’t thought they’d turn that down. Not when the cost to them was so small, just one strange woman who’d fallen onto their rooftop. Melitele knew that far more respectable groups had decided to sacrifice Ciri’s autonomy for far less benefit. But it hadn’t even taken Rennes a second to decide. Ciri swallowed against a sudden sense of… of shame.

“It’s alright, Falka. Your secret is safe here.” Frederic gave her a reassuring look, patting her shoulder. “And so are you. Now, from the cursing I can hear wafting from the kitchens, our valiant crew of mighty monster hunters could use some saving. Edik might’ve even gotten ash on his frilly underthings.”

A laugh somehow made it through the thickness in Ciri’s throat. “A tragic blow. I’d better ride to the rescue.”

“Good girl.” Frederic smiled. “I’ll be at the forge. Have fun.”

 

*****

 

Ciri spent the early afternoon perched on the kitchen counter, cubing potatoes and trying very hard not to laugh as the witchers alternated between scrubbing, complaining, and telling improbably grand tales. Then the entire group swept her off to the stables, where they shoveled manure and hauled fresh straw while she was put to work sorting damaged bits and tackle, so that the better ones might be repaired. 

The stables were quite near the main courtyard entrance, and Ciri could hear the commotion as soon as it started. Ciri limped along after her little group of witchers when they ducked out to look. The source of the noise was easy to find; men returning with sledges, metal runners spitting sparks and scraping loudly as they dragged over flagstones, rather than snow. 

The witchers seemed worn but in good spirits, nodding and lifting hands in acknowledgment as shouts of welcome rose up all around the courtyard. Even the boys were allowed to tumble from their practice in order to run over and tug on the sledge ropes--though it took teams of eight, with more pushing from behind, to move the weight one witcher could haul. 

“The hunters from day before yesterday?” Ciri asked, trying to decide if she recognized any of the men encased in fur and leather. 

Simon nodded beside her. “Yeah. Feodor, Izak, Ondrej, Badrick.” he said, pointing them out, each in turn. The first three of the sledges carried deer, small game, and several nice-looking goats. “Hey, you like grouse?” he asked, as if to draw attention from the last sledge, which--

“-- _wow,_ ” breathed Ciri, as the sledge inched reluctantly over the threshold. It took everything both Badrick and the gate guard had to haul the thing, once it left the snowpack, because on it was the biggest bloody wyvern Ciri had ever seen. The severed head, threaded through the snout on an s-curved trophy hook, was as long as Ciri’s entire torso. The creature’s hide was a good inch thick where Ciri could see cut edges, while the thinner scales were mottled more rust than aubergine. It was bigger than most royal wyverns, yet it didn’t have the same yellowish cast to its hide. “That is an impressive kill. Who brought it down, I wonder?”

”My money’s on Feodor,” Edik said, nodding at the man in question. “He’s taken down more than a few in his time--says he likes the challenge of winged beasts.” 

“Only one way to find out. Hey, Izak! Who decided to tangle with the lizard?” Simon called out. 

One of the returning witchers--slightly taller than the others, and sporting a most formidable handlebar mustache--paused in hauling in his own, more lightly-loaded sledge. “Badrick!” he called back, voice pitched to carry across the courtyard. “Feodor got some good swings in, but Badrick took the kill. And then decided we had to haul it all the way back in to replenish our supply of wyvern bits, the masochistic bastard. Also, hey, nice braies, Edik!” 

Edik responded with a friendly one-fingered salute.

“You’ll thank me... when you’re needing... wyvern hide... for new armor,” Badrick retorted, between heaves on his monster-loaded sledge. He was making better progress now as more witchers waded through crowds of curious boys to lend a hand, but the carcass was still large and unwieldy enough to make it slow going.

“Butchering?” Ciri asked, interested. It was getting on towards sunset, and something that big--even with all these witchers, it’d take a while. “This tack is as sorted as it’ll ever be; think they’ll mind if I help?”

“Well… no, but--you actually _want_ to?” Simon looked at her curiously. 

“More hands should be welcome. You want bone and gut?” Gregor asked, now much recovered from his earlier hangover. “They stay outside; hide, head, and wings go in the hall.”

“Sounds like you have this all planned out,” Ciri said, impressed. Smart, to do the delicate work of chipping out teeth and stripping scales from hide indoors, while sorting through entrails someplace colder and less likely to stain or stink. As soon as the wyvern-loaded sledge reached the lower courtyard, witchers set to freeing the ropes that bound the carcass to the sled. About half the boys and a few of the witchers went with the other game, probably to help the citadel staff process meat and fur. “Let’s see what we have to work with, first,” Ciri said, eyeing the small mountain of monster, then the tools the nearby witchers already had at their belts. “You got a bonesaw I can borrow?” It should be interesting to see what she remembered. It had been more than a few years since she’d had to butcher anything, much less a wyvern this large. Still, Vesemir’s lessons on the proper handling of draconid carcasses-- _waste not, want not, especially when it comes to hunting things that are more than willing to hunt you back, girl_ \--had been thorough.

“You’re… really going to…” Erdik said slowly, giving her a look eloquent in its skepticism. 

Ciri shrugged. “Have to earn my keep somehow. This seems as good an option as any.” She headed for the carcass, snagging a small stool with her free hand as she went. Butchering could be finicky work, especially for the most valuable interior bits, and she had a feeling she’d need both hands free to work. 

Caught in the middle of shucking his furs and outer jerkin, Badrick gave her and Gregor a puzzled look as she joined the small group of witchers handling the carcass. “Yes? What do you want?” 

“I want to help,” Ciri said. “You have some spare tools?” 

Badrick frowned, looking at Gregor. “She allowed to handle blades?” 

Ciri sighed. She understood the witchers’ caution, but having her every move questioned was getting old. 

Gregor hesitated, looking torn. This time his decision was made for him as Frederic headed past, a deer carcass flung effortlessly over one shoulder. “Give her a knife, Badrick,” he called out. “Let’s see what she can do.”

“... fine,” Badrick said, still a little baffled, but apparently willing to trust Frederic’s word. He gestured her to set her stool down near the wyvern’s forepaws, then handed her a curved skinning knife and a whetstone. “Start at the base of the wing and the foreleg, freeing the hide. But if you mutilate my leather, I’ll set you to hauling buckets of offal instead. Understood?”

“Completely,” Ciri replied, and got started. It was slow going at first, working the knife through the tough hide at the elbow, where the slit down the leg would spoil as little of the leather as possible, then getting through the thick tendinous connective tissue. She had to stop every few strokes to give the knife a few sharpening passes over the whetstone--it wasn’t silver, and dulled fast in the wyvern’s dark, alternatingly fibrous and jelly-like flesh.

Fortunately, the carcass had bled out, so it wasn’t as messy as it might’ve been. But the wyvern hadn’t been field dressed, and Gregor sank down next to her to do just that. “Alright now. When you’ve just made the kill, you know where to make the first cut?”

For a moment, Ciri thought he was addressing her, but when she glanced over, she found that Gregor had about six boys clustered around him, watching intently. And… for that matter, so did she, avid and familiar little faces following her every move. “Oh! Geralt, Eric. Here, you can see better from this side.” 

“Wow,” Geralt breathed, as the boys shuffled around to the indicated spot. “You can really do this?”

“Oooh!” Eric said, peering at the flap of skin she’d scrolled back.

Ciri snorted, pushed a lock of her hair back with her mostly-clean wrist. How strange, to be teaching Geralt all the tricks he’d once taught her! “Sure can. Alright now, see this tendon, here? You have to make sure not to cut it when you skin. It’ll make the talons clench up, so you can’t get the hide off the paws, might even break the claws. Part of why wyverns have such a strong grip--relaxing only makes them squeeze tighter.” 

“Ok! How come that thing there’s so light-colored?”

“‘N why are these scales all small-like?” 

Under the attention of an audience who seemed to think every detail of skinning a wyvern was about the most fascinating thing they’d ever seen or heard, the work went quickly. Ciri freed the entire foreleg--Edik came over with a silver-toothed bone saw, presenting it like an apology--and Ciri showed the boys how to cut at the base of the claws so as to take them off with the hide. By then, the belly was slit fully open, the cavity still steaming, while more boys ‘ooh’ed and ‘aah’ed over the organs Gregor carefully separated. Ciri moved around to the keel bones and massive flight muscles, peeling the hide and narrating as she went. She was dimly aware of the eyes of adult witchers on her as well, but paid them little heed. Working shoulder by shoulder, taking home the spoils after a hard hunt--such opportunities had been all too few after she left Kaer Morhen, which made the memories she had of Vesemir’s detailed tutelage, Lambert’s gory pranks, and Geralt’s longsuffering patience all the more precious. 

Soon the entire front quarter was finished. Someone else had skinned the rear half and removed the wings, but even without them in the way, it still took four witchers to roll the beast over. Sure of her grip and the knife now, Ciri started on the other side, letting the boys hold the growing scroll of hide away as she worked, showing them how the thickness varied, where the connective tissue was trickiest, where the best-placed stab wounds and the killing blow had sliced through. The wyvern was a healthy specimen in its prime, which meant a thick hide and an abundance of strong tendon and sinew to sever. It was gory, messy work, made harder by her splinted leg; she couldn’t crouch or clamber over the carcass, or use her weight as leverage like she otherwise would have. Luckily she had a plethora of young hands willing to assist, the boys eager to get into the action by pulling back newly-skinned sections or wrestling a flopping limb out of the way.

Finally Ciri found a moment to stand, stretching to unkink her back. The hide was entirely separated, all in a single beautiful piece, the creamy white flesh-side glowing golden in the sunset. The wings, head, venomous parts of the tail, and various other bits had already been carted inside or off to the midden or pig sties, as appropriate; only witchers and a few watching boys still lingered. 

“Will you get me some wash water?” Ciri asked Eric, who nodded enthusiastically and ran off. Badrick approached with an unlit lantern: the witchers didn’t need it now, but might when it got darker. 

“Good work,” he said, surveying the hide for nicks or other blemishes. “Doubt I could have done better.” 

“Thanks,” Ciri said, smiling at him. She was tired, but it was a good kind of tired, the satisfied ache of muscles after a hard job well done. “It’s a fantastic kill.” And it was good to have the chance to do something useful. Not that being empress, in her time, wasn’t--but so much of politics seemed to result in one step back for every two steps forward, a constant tightrope of compromise and calculated losses. Here, the challenges set before her were simple, easy things, their benefits readily apparent. Clean tack, dice potatoes, look up bits of arcane lore .... even Rennes’ suspicions were straightforward ones, easy enough to anticipate, if not quite so easy to counter. 

“Hn,” Badrick looked her over. “Keep the knife. You’ll need it again, I wager. Vials are inside--you know how to deal with wyvern venom sacs?”

Geralt looked up at her, eyes wide, eager, jittering with excitement. Ciri had to fight to keep the answering grin off her face. Vesemir hadn’t trusted her anywhere near the venom--both valuable, dangerous, and easy to spill--for years, and she didn’t imagine Geralt got to see that work very often, either. “Sure do,” she said. Eric was on his way back with more haste than care, lugging a bucket with both hands, water slopping over the edges. “Come on, Geralt, let’s go wash our hands. Can you tell me how many venom sacs a wyvern has?”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta by the beautiful Fen_assan!

The next day, Ciri woke up late, with stiff muscles and a crick in her back that reminded her eloquently that she wasn’t sixteen any longer, and also not used to butchering overly-large wyverns either. Wincing, she hobbled her way over to the garderobe to do her business, then splashed water on her face and chewed the fuzz from her teeth with a pine twig, grimly enduring the protests of her back. She might not miss palace politics, but right now she was definitely missing the ability to order a painkilling potion and have one to hand within moments. 

Pulling a fresh tunic over her head and grabbing the crutch, she headed for the door. Sebastian’s ‘exam’ had yielded a couple of benefits beyond clues as to what awaited her back home: yesterday, while Ciri was busy dealing with venom glands, Frederic and Gregor had taken it upon themselves to find a new room for her on the ground floor. She still had her guard rotation, but the door was no longer locked from the outside, and she didn’t have to navigate narrow, winding stairs on a twice-daily basis. She pulled the door open, and Gregor pushed away from the wall, falling into step alongside her easily. The room was small, more an antechamber off the main hall than anything else, and a short enough distance away that she could hear Edik declaiming long before they entered. 

Edik wasn’t wearing his gauzy silver braies this morning, much to Ciri’s disappointment. Instead he was standing next to an unimpressed Almeric, holding them aloft as he announced, “--never let it be said that Edik of Breton welshes on a bet! Here’re your damned undergarments, Almeric. Worn an entire day, as promised, and I wish you much joy of the ploughing things now!” He tossed the garment--now thoroughly soot-stained and reeking of manure and wyvern bits--to his fellow witcher. 

Almeric snagged the undergarment out of the air without missing a beat, looking it over with a critical eye. Like everyone else, Ciri could see that he’d gotten the worse end of the bet, given the state of the braies. “Sure you don’t want to keep them?” he said, straight-faced. “Everyone’s going to miss the view.”

Edik snorted, hips cocked. “Anyone wants a view of what I’ve got, they can just say the word. They don’t need all that fancy wrapping.” 

“Pity. Must have been uncomfortable, all this straw. And the wyvern juice soaking through. Sticking. All night long.”

Edik gritted his teeth. “Worth it, to ensure you’ll never inflict this torment on any other poor soul. Because good luck getting those clean enough to keep. Very, very much worth it.”

“Mn. My evil plots are vanquished.”

“So they are! Never again will the good folk of Kaer Morhen tremble to take one of Almeric’s bets! Never again!” Clad in thin tan leathers, Edik paced a triumphant circuit of the tables, fist overhead like a victorious gladiator, slapping other late-breakfasting witchers on their backs. “Rejoice, men--also Falka over there--for you are free of this vicious bondage! The gale that sweeps the north has delivered you of the malevolence that long blackened your nights! Through blood, toil, sweat, and tears, I have brought you at last to liberation!” 

‘Yay,’ muttered one of the witchers, just loud enough for Ciri to detect, although Edik out of charity made as if he did not hear it. Someone choked on his beer. Most of the other men were leaning back, enjoying the show.

“Is he drunk?” Ciri whispered to Gregor.

“No, that’s just Edik,” Gregor said, helping himself to some porridge. It was particularly good today: the leftover smoked cheese had been melted into the pot, and there was a savory gravy to pour over the top.

Edik’s triumph having run its course, he finally came back around to gloat in front of Almeric again. “You know, if you’re just too desolate about your loss, I could put those braies out of their misery. Igni, right here.”

“Oh,” Almeric said casually, “I’ll think I’ll save them for the next time.” With a flick of his fingers, Almeric shook out the tattered, dirty undergarment ... and uttered a trigger word. A remarkably strong cleaning spell must have been worked right into the gauzy silver material, far more than a simple washerwoman hex, because all at once the little rips sealed up, dirt and stains vanished from the delicate gauze and lace, the bits of straw came sprinkling down. Within moments, the braies were once more pristine and billowing.

Ciri shook her head. “Remind me never to bet against Almeric,” she muttered at Gregor. “He plays dirty.” And apparently had a poker face second to none. Which was saying something, given the company they were in.

Edik gaped. “Son of a bitch. Jacek, Dorek, you whoresons, did you know they were _magic_ underpants? And no one told me? Betrayed by my brothers, in favor of Almeric and his devilry! You won’t get away with this, knave.”

Almeric leaned an elbow on the tabletop, lifting his eyebrows at Edik’s ire. “Sounds like a challenge to me.”

“That’s because it is one! On the comb, you rogue.”

Almeric rose from his seat. “Done.” Nothing further apparently needed to be said as both men headed for the main doors, Almeric folding away the offending garment into a belt pouch.

Ciri frowned. “Wait. Are they… actually going to duel?” Over underpants?

“Sure. Good practice,” Gregor said. All around the main hall, the little groups of witchers were gathering up their gear, streaming out after Almeric and Edik. Gregor tucked Ciri’s spoon into her bowl and picked up both helpings of porridge. “Gets the blood up. Want to watch?”

“Err. Yes?” Ciri said. Witchers practiced against one another all the time--there wasn’t much else around that could safely give them a good workout--but a duel? And on the comb, of all places?

The breakfast crowd spilled out into the biting mountain air, Ciri eagerly following in their wake. Dorek jogged ahead of the grim-looking pair of combatants to track down the trainers, speaking to them quietly. Vesemir gave Almeric and Edik a sidelong look; then shook his head and ordered his crew of boys down from the comb.

The comb was essentially a wall of huge posts, each standing upright with one end buried in the ground. The flat-cut tops varied between four and eight feet off the ground, and there were more than a few gaps throughout where posts were missing. Spiked, iron-banded logs were suspended from a rail over the wall, weighted and too heavy to block. Once set to swinging, the targets had more than enough momentum to knock even a grown man completely off his footing, and provided a brutal challenge to a trainee’s balance and skill with a sword.

A golden-eyed teenager brought Almeric his swords--Edik was wearing his already-- and steel flashed in the bright morning sunlight as both witchers mounted the comb. To Ciri’s eye, their swords appeared to be equal in reach, both men wielding standard hand-and-a-half witcher blades, about forty inches. The watching crowd left a space clear around the comb itself in case of any falls, but otherwise stayed close to the action, shouting both encouragement and insults to both participants. The noise attracted attention across the keep, and more witchers wandered over, including a few trainees and all the boys within earshot, watching the fight preparations with eager eyes.

“Hand him his pretty ass, Almeric!”

“C’mon Edik, you going to let some frilly underthings get the best of you?”

Both Edik and Almeric traversed the uneven and narrow footing with casual ease, stepping with surefooted grace as they took position opposite each other. Edik was grinning fiercely, obviously looking forward to the fight; Almeric was as stone-faced as ever, his eyes narrowed, intent on his opponent. Both ignored the watching crowd and the noise as they settled into ready stances, blades lifting--and then the winched-up targets started to fall, and the fight began. 

Watching witchers fight--*really* fight, intent on drawing blood--was completely different than watching them spar, Ciri realized. She had never seen Geralt or any of the other witchers of her time fight each other, not seriously. Given how few witchers from the School of the Wolf were left, why take the risk? But in this time … in a castle full of bored witchers, a raging battle atop the comb was apparently great sport, to judge by the eager crowd. 

Edik made the first move, blurring forward with preternatural speed, his blade slicing downward in a lethal arc. Neither was wearing armor beyond thin leathers, and with no buckler to hand, all that stood between each man and crippling injury was his own speed and skill. 

Almeric parried, disengaged, then closed in, steel scraping against steel in a vicious exchange of close-range blows. He slammed a shoulder into Edik’s midsection, knocking the slighter man backwards, following it up with a short thrust of his blade into his opponent’s unprotected middle. Edik stumbled backwards, twisting like a cat, arching out of the way of the thrust even as he teetered on the edge of the comb. Bark chips scattered as the wood splintered dangerously underfoot. A lesser man would have flailed and fallen; instead Edik spun, pivoting on his perch with the precision of a dancer. His sword slashed downwards, and this time it was Almeric who was forced to give way to avoid either gaining a new scar or losing an eye--or both. 

That retreat took him just a step too far, and Ciri’s breath caught in her throat as the massive, steel-banded target swung back down. If it hit .... Edik saw the opening, vaulting a gap between logs to close the distance and sliding into a low lunge, attempting to keep Almeric pinned just for a half-instant--

\--but the bigger witcher was no longer on the comb. So fast Ciri barely registered what was happening, Almeric kicked off against the mass of the descending target, body twisting up and _over_ Edik through a double turn any acrobat would envy, steel flashing. The crowd _roared_ , a primal full-throated sound. Edik was forced to duck, flattening himself to the wood in order to avoid the tip of Almeric’s sword as it swept down, where the back of his neck had been only a moment before. Almeric landed perfectly atop the cut end of a log no wider than two spread hands, blade at the ready--and Edik spun, ducked around another swinging target, and launched himself back into the fray. 

Swords sliced through the air, the blades almost seeming to bend as Almeric and Edik clashed in a flurry of lightning-fast blows. Both attack and response happened almost too quickly to see; Ciri wished dearly she dared to pause time so she could truly _see_ the skill on display. Distinguishing a single strike in this particular duel was almost impossible. Almeric and Edik had become almost something other than human: whirling djinni of razor-edged death, the ring of each strike and parry blending into a cacophony of steel on steel, save for the moments when the combatants broke apart to avoid the heavy, swinging targets. 

Then the balance of the fight changed in an instant. Dodging a backhanded slash, Almeric came up under Edik’s guard, and threw an Aard straight into the other witcher’s breastbone. 

The blast rocked the entire wall of logs, chips and icy splinters flying in all directions, targets swinging wildly, and threw Edik tumbling helplessly backwards. It shouldn’t have been possible to recover, not from an impact that Ciri _knew_ could fracture ribs, skidding, falling--except Edik was reaching out, catching the edge of an upright post with the fingertips of his free hand. Impossibly, amazingly, that tiny bit of leverage was all he needed to swing himself upwards, landing like a cat. A massive, weighted target barreled down between the fighters, a bare instant of respite. “Oh, now it’s _on_ ,” Edik growled, working his jaw to clear his ears. A trickle of red traced down from his nose.

Turning the palm of his hand upwards, Almeric curled his fingers, the message unmistakable. _Bring it, then._

Edik launched himself forward--but this time, pulled his thrust moments before Almeric could sweep it aside with his own blade. Instead he wheeled, bringing the sword up into a low slash, leaving himself open. Ciri gasped, her heart in her throat, as Almeric’s steel came down on Edik’s unprotected shoulder--only to rebound off a Quen shield’s yellow blaze. 

Ciri hadn’t even seen Edik cast the glyph. Apparently neither had Almeric; the recoil from the shield sent him staggering back, and Edik was on him, blade flashing as he struck again and again, keeping his opponent on the defensive. They clashed, swords tangling. Almeric suddenly gave way, falling backwards, and Ciri thought he had slipped, lost his footing. But Almeric wasn’t falling--he was throwing himself into a reverse roll across those narrow post tops, gaining badly-needed distance. Rolling back to his feet, he parried Edik’s next slashing strike, weapons clashing--but now he had more leverage and slammed forward, crossguard against crossguard, using his slightly greater mass to drive the edge of his blade into the meat of his opponent’s upper arm. 

Edik didn’t seem to notice the wound, even as crimson blood darkened his leathers and spattered the comb. Teeth bared in a feral wolfish grin, he slammed a booted foot into Almeric’s knee, disengaging their swords, managing to score a glancing strike of his own. The scent of blood in the air only seemed to galvanize both witchers. The fight turned even more vicious, neither man giving any quarter. Edik and Almeric used signs at any possible opening--Aard, Quen, even Igni, although the latter seemed to mainly serve as a distraction, thoroughly scorching both a target and the icy wood underfoot. 

Sword battles, in Ciri’s experience, were rarely drawn-out affairs. Even between equally matched opponents, such duels were fast and deadly, and usually over in a matter of seconds. All it took was one misstep, one fractional hesitation at the wrong time, and you were dead--or wounded or disarmed, if you were lucky enough and your opponent skilled enough. 

Edik and Almeric, however, were proving her wrong. Even as the fight continued, faster than any she had seen, neither witcher was showing any signs of flagging. Both combatants now bore a number of minor wounds but didn’t seem to care, battling on with inhuman stamina, every bit as tenacious as their wolfish namesakes. The watching crowd roared at each new sally, calling out jeers and encouragement, ignoring the cold. 

Then, as suddenly as it began, the fight ended. Almeric turned, knocking away a backhanded strike, using his momentum to bring down a powerful two-handed cut--only to be hit by Edik’s Aard at point-blank range. The blast flung him backward, half-stunned, and a descending target clipped him hard. It took everything Almeric had just to stay atop the comb, and Edik gave Almeric no time to recover. He lunged, ramming his blade through the other witcher’s right shoulder. Ciri could _hear_ the steel thunk into the wood beneath. Almeric’s hand spasmed--and Ciri watched with a certain sense of inevitability as his sword hilt slipped from his fingers, the blade tumbling down to clatter against the frozen ground. 

Both men froze for a moment, a tableau of battle: the worn bark at the top of the post darkened with blood. Then Almeric said something to Edik that Ciri couldn’t hear over the raucous crowd, and they broke apart. Edik pulled his sword free, then offered his left hand to Almeric, pulling him up.

The pair of witchers stood for a moment, surveying the gathering. It didn’t look like Almeric could lift his right arm. Ciri felt a cold frisson of anxiety go down her spine; Edik’s blade might have torn tendon as well as muscle, or even splintered bone. Edik grabbed the edge of the post, jumped lightly down, and turned back to help Almeric do the same.

All around the comb, boys came streaming through the circled witchers, mobbing the two fighters. Even from all the way over by the forge, Ciri could hear the babble of questions and awestruck exclamations. 

“Good fight,” Gregor remarked, finishing off the last of his bowl of porridge. 

Ciri’s had gone stone cold in her hands. “They-- I--”

Gregor followed her gaze. “You saw Thomas fight, right?” 

“Well yes, but--” 

Almeric climbed down from the wall, using his left hand to grip the edge of the post. Edik steadied him, sword tip slicked red until someone in the crowd handed over a scrap of cloth to wipe it. Edik sheathed his own weapon, then took Almeric’s from a boy who held it up reverently, as if it were a relic or hard-won trophy. He cleaned it as well, and tucked it deftly back in its empty sheath on the other witcher’s back. Ciri watched Almeric shake his head at some question she couldn’t hear, blood still dripping from lax fingertips, and her hands tightened around her bowl. 

There was definitely serious damage, and that was Alemeric’s sword arm. The wound would have been a crippling injury, if not fatal, for any normal man. And no matter how much more resilient witchers were…. If--if it were Geralt-- Ciri set her breakfast aside on a nearby barrel top, grabbed her crutch, and headed down towards where the two men stood. Bemused, Gregor trailed along. 

The trainers were already chivvying their charges back to their targets, platforms, or even back up onto the blood-stained wall of the comb. With the crowd clearing out, Ciri could see the two combatants more clearly--both were thoroughly bloodied, their leathers scorched and wet with sweat where they weren’t sliced apart. Both Almeric and Edik were going to need new traveling leathers before they headed back out on the Path … but right now, that was the least of her concerns. “How bad is it?” Ciri asked, a little breathless, pushing her way between a couple of golden-eyed teenagers.

“What, the fact that Almeric went so easy on me? Pretty bad,” Edik said, grinning. The movement reopened a cut across his cheek.

“Untrue,” said Almeric evenly, shaking his head. “It was a good fight. You’ve improved since the last time.” He was holding his arm against his side with his uninjured hand, but otherwise seemed oblivious to the fact that his shoulder was torn open. 

_Last time?_ Ciri reached out without thinking, then stopped short, afraid of making things worse. “But your shoulder--Almeric, that’s your _sword arm_. Even if it heals, the scar tissue …”

Edik, Gregor, and Almeric all exchanged baffled glances. “It’ll heal,” Almeric said, watching her. “Always does. A week or so, I’ll be fit to fight again. Sooner, if I push it with potions.”

“Scars only get bad if you have to heal slow,” Edik said, a hint of concern seeping into his expression. “If food’s scarce, or it’s too cold, or you have to use dirty bandages. Not a problem here. We can take more risks.”

“Risking an arm just for practice--” Ciri started to reply, and then Edik’s meaning struck home. Geralt’s stiff shoulder, Eskell, Lambert--if the worst of their scars were due more to the aftermath of their fights, than the fights themselves…. Weeks spent wandering between villages all too likely to turn a man away, alone, soaked by cold rain, until even a witcher’s flesh hardened, thickened around the wound…. Ciri swallowed hard. 

“Not just for that,” Almeric said, nodding to the comb, where the boys had returned to their training. Eskel was up there now, jumping between posts and dodging a heavy target to give himself more room to swing his wooden sword, putting the moves he’d just seen into practice. For a moment, Ciri couldn’t grasp Almeric’s meaning. But… there was new fire in Eskel’s eyes as he leapt and lunged, elated, like this display of strength was a harbinger of his future. A promise for them all. 

“And if I fucked up that stroke, hit something I shouldn't have, Sebastian can set it to rights,” Edik added, a little sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head with a blood-stained hand. “That isn’t needed very often, though. The mutations make us pretty hard to kill.” Edik tilted his head, eyeing Ciri quizzically. “Thought you knew that, though, given how you grew up?”

“Hard to kill doesn’t mean impossible. And just because you heal doesn’t mean it doesn’t still hurt,” Ciri said fiercely, forcing the words out past the ache in her throat. She knew Geralt’s scars, had touched similar marks on Marrok, Simon, and Gregor’s skin, memories of old injuries and new, etched in their flesh. Pain was part of a witcher’s life--but that didn’t mean she had to like it. That she couldn’t wish she’d been by Geralt’s side, to prevent some of that pain.

Edik and Almeric glanced at each other, obviously at a loss what to say. Gregor stepped forward. “We should head in, get that shoulder bound up,” he told Almeric. “You keep bleeding all over like that, you’ll bring the harpies down on our heads.”

Almeric nodded. “Warmer inside anyway,” he remarked. He glanced at Ciri. “You can come with, if you like. See for yourself it’s not as bad as it looks.”

“I--” Ciri stopped, squeezed her eyes shut hard for a moment, just until she could rein in her anxiety a little. This--these men weren’t _her_ witchers, most of them. And no matter what lay ahead for them all, if she could learn from this, learn what to do if--the next time-- “Yeah. I’d like that. I’d like that a lot.” 

 

*****

 

Almeric didn’t need any help getting over to a stool in front of the fireplace, while Edik made a side trip to the kitchens. He came back with two bottles of vodka, and pulled up a seat beside the older witcher. Gregor, already working on cutting apart the seams of Almeric’s jerkin, nodded to Edik. “Start stripping our victor, there, if you would,” he said to Ciri.

Edik leaned over to pass a bottle to Almeric. “First wyverns, now witchers,” he grinned, pulling the cork on his vodka with his teeth. 

“You did say that anyone who wants a view can just ask for it,” Ciri said, trying for lightness, and mainly just sounding a little bit choked. She pulled the bench around and sat.

Edik barked a laugh, took a long draught, then shrugged out of his baldric with its pouches and sword belts. “You just say the word, Falka; I’d be happy to oblige. Hey--you as good with a needle as you are with a knife?”

Ciri finally found the seam of his thin jacket. Not that there was much left of the leather to save, but cutting the seam would be safer than trying to get through the leather, without slicing skin. Great Sun knew both witchers were cut up enough. “--no, unfortunately,” Ciri said, frowning as she pulled her little skinning knife and started working her way up his sleeve. 

“Huh. Sounds like Thomas never got torn up too bad?” Edik said, watching her with interest. 

“Well, he--” Liquid splashed, and Ciri looked up, finding that Gregor had already stripped Almeric with quick efficiency. Gregor was sorting through his pouches, while Almeric… deliberately poured a measure of the vodka over his torn shoulder, crimson racing in rivulets down his skin. He never so much as flinched, but the thought of how badly _that_ must burn--Ciri glanced quickly back to her own work, the pit of her stomach clenching. “Not that I ever saw, anyway.”

“Must have been very good. Or lucky,” Edik commented, as Ciri peeled the last of his jerkin away. Whatever had scarred his face had struck him across the chest, too--dozens of small divots were scattered over his front and side, like stars, amongst all the other scars and new wounds. Edik pulled a little leather packet from one of his discarded pouches, and flipped it open atop a wooden stool. Within, a dozen curved needles lay hooked through a twist of some kind of herbage, stained a virulent, oily green. They’d each been pre-threaded with individual neatly-coiled lengths of some kind of animal tendon, also stained with the same substance. 

“So,” Edik unhooked one, held it up with its trailing thread. “If you have to use one of these on yourself, or another human, you need to rinse it thoroughly in vodka or rye, at least three changes of alcohol.” 

Had Geralt carried something like that, something she could have used on him, when he-- “What is it?” Ciri asked.

“Ahem,” said Jacek, the dark-skinned, quiet witcher. He was leaning against the wall beside the fireplace. Ciri hadn't even seen him come back into the hall. “Hate to interrupt, but Dean needs some assistance with a project, Falka. Not to worry, we can take care of this.”

Edik hesitated. Ciri looked between him and Jacek. Faced with the chance to learn something so useful…. Tamping down her disappointment, Ciri reached for her crutch--only to stop short as Almeric said, “Hold, Falka.” He glanced over at Jacek. “Another pair of hands would help. Hers are as good as any.”

Jacek frowned, golden eyes narrowed as he looked at the injured witcher. “You think so, Almeric?” Watching the exchange, Ciri had the definite sense that there was a lot more going on beneath those words than she was privy to.

“I do,” was the laconic reply. Still frowning, Jacek pushed away from the wall and went over to crouch next to Almeric. They had a brief, low-voiced conversation, but given their close proximity, Ciri could still hear part of it. Unfortunately, that didn’t make it any less cryptic.

“-scented fear,” Almeric said, the words barely audible. “After --.”

Jacek’s expression didn’t change. “You think--?”

Almeric shook his head minutely. “No. --first --for us.” 

“Hrm.” Jacek looked over at Ciri, golden gaze as sharp and assessing as any spymaster’s. Ciri met that look with equanimity. After dealing with Emhyr, with Dijkstra and Avallac’h and any number of schemers in the imperial court, she was used to working with--or around--clever and dangerous men. “All right,” Jacek said abruptly, standing up again. “I’ll tell Grandmaster Dean he’ll just have to wait.”

Edik grimaced. “Great, now we’ll have a cranky archivist on our hands.”

Jacek’s mouth curled upwards in sardonic amusement. “And this is different from normal … how, exactly? Enjoy your stitchery, Edik. Try not to let her embroider any flowers into your hide.” 

“That only happened once!” Edik called out indignantly to the other witcher’s retreating back. “Seriously, never, ever get drunk enough to let a seamstress’ daughter stitch you up after a fight,” he told Ciri. “Even if she swears up and down she’s done it before. You’ll never hear the end of it if you do.”

Ciri laughed and asked, “Flowers? Really? How old was she?”

“Twelve,” Edik said sourly. “Said she wanted to make it ‘pretty’. Rotfiend got me with some bone shards.” Ciri had to put a hand over her mouth, belatedly trying to hide her smile, and Gregor snorted. “She looked older, I swear!” 

“Oh dear,” Ciri said, still unable to keep the grin off her lips. “Well, you’d best walk me through this. I certainly wouldn’t want to make a mistake and end up with something… ornamental.” 

“Right! Luckily we don’t have to worry about anything too complicated today,” Edik said, glancing over at Almeric. “Gregor can take care of piecing together that shoulder, and none of my wounds are that deep.” Gregor had, in fact, already gotten started; he had rubbed more of that greenish substance over his hands, and was meticulously pulling together the ragged edges of structures within the deep wound, stitching white to white and red to red. “Check your hands first. Any cuts or abrasions? Good. If you prick yourself with the needle, stop right away and tell me, alright?”

Ciri nodded as Edik daubed the greenish substance over her fingertips, then handed her the needle. The oily liquid glimmered a little in the firelight, and the smell… wasn’t quite like any potion or decoction she recognized. And then she realized--this was a mutagen of some kind. No wonder Jacek had tried to send her away. Even Ciri’s witchers had never let her handle these substances, and for Almeric to do so now--was this a test, or….? 

“Alright, so, you want to look for anything that got through the full thickness of the muscle, or where there’s any white tendon showing, first. Feels like the gash under my shoulder blade might be the deepest. Because Almeric is a back-stabbing whoreson.”

“Not my fault you spent so much time running away,” Almeric said, taking several deep swallows from his bottle of vodka. 

Ciri found the wound easily enough, a gash eight inches long. The bleeding had stopped, although she wasn’t quite sure how, because the cut still gaped open, black-striated muscle sickeningly exposed. She hesitated, and Gregor leaned back to look. “Three in the muscle will hold it together. There, there, and… there. Then cut the thread and start a new line to close the skin over the top. You can rinse with vodka if it’s too much of a mess to see.”

Ciri nodded, then hesitated. “How do you pull the stitches out, then, if they’re underneath?” 

“You don’t,” Edik snorted. “Not on us, unless you have to use metal thread, which never works well anyway. This is tendon fiber, from griffon wing. It’ll be absorbed and broken down. You can use the thread on a human, but not the green stuff, right?”

“Alright,” Ciri nodded, and carefully pinched the twitching muscle fibers back together. It was gut-wrenching to have her fingers just… inside another person like this. Wincing, she pushed the curve of the needle through the flesh--as dark red as heart muscle--drawing the thread carefully through, just as Gregor was doing at Americ’s shoulder. 

“Just right,” Edik said, voice perfectly steady, although she could _see_ the muscle tremble finely as she threaded it through. “You know how to tie a double knot? Perfect--draw it just a little tighter. You’re a natural.”

Stitch by stitch, Edik guided her through closing up the wound, walking her through every step. She’d been so young, for her years at Kaer Morhen… and with Vesemir there, she’d just never needed to learn to handle these kinds of situations. Geralt, the others… they’d always seemed monumental to her, unbreakable. Until Vesemir had shown her how easily they could die. “How are you doing this?” Ciri said at last, reaching for her little knife to cut the rest of the thread from the now-closed gash. “I’d have passed out long before now.”

Edik half-laughed around another swallow of vodka. “Witchers are immune to pain, right?”

“OK, now I know that’s bullshit,” Ciri retorted, rubbing more of the greenish substance over the needle and remaining thread, then starting on another cut. This one was little more than skin-deep. “Or was I imagining all of you moaning and groaning at breakfast the other day? Sounded like a herd of wounded elk in here.”

“Ah, but you see, that was a spiritual kind of pain,” Edik said, breath hissing faintly between his teeth as she began to suture the wound closed. His voice stayed steady, however, as he continued, declaiming pompously to the room at large, “No man is immune to the consequences of his own follies, after all. But mere physical pain is beneath a witcher’s notice.” 

Gregor snorted, and Almeric actually chuckled--carefully, lest he disturb the work Gregor was doing on his shoulder. 

“Right,” Ciri said sardonically. “Is that what it is?” The work was going a little faster now that she had a bit more practice. Tying off the sinew thread, she cut it short and held out a bit of cloth. “Some vodka, if you please.” Edik helpfully wetted it with a splash from his bottle, and she wiped the blood from her handiwork, spreading her fingers over his still-hot skin. 

“Well, so Marcin likes to tell us, anyway,” Edik said, grinning at her.

“We feel pain,” Almeric put in, unexpectedly joining the conversation. “But witchers can’t afford to be distracted by it. So you learn to put it aside. Meditation, other techniques … they help.”

Ciri noted that he didn’t list ‘practice’ among those techniques. Given everything she’d seen today, though, she imagined that had to be a big part of it. Well, that and ‘liquor.’ 

“And sometimes it just comes down to sheer bloody-mindedness,” Edik said drily. “Not to mention knowing you only have two options: being in pain, or being dead. Witchers who use fisstech or poppy-flower don’t tend to survive long on the Path.” He shrugged, skin twitching a bit as the movement pulled at the remaining cuts. Ciri shook her head and bent her attention to a long, shallow gash along his ribs. 

“I guess I never realized how careful Thomas was not to get hurt, at least while we were together,” she confessed, giving them what truth she could. “He was always very... methodical on his hunts. Didn’t move until he knew exactly what he was dealing with.” Ok, so that was a bit of a lie--she’d heard stories of the trouble Geralt had gotten himself into, often exactly because he didn’t wait. Kingslayers and golden dragons and cursed Ofieri princes … though to be fair, it was usually because some other circumstance had forced his hand. 

“Choosing your ground is always better on hunts,” Edik agreed. “Of course, that’s not always possible. I’d wager your Thomas probably held off on anything truly dangerous until you were older, better able to take care of yourself. Might even have been trying to teach you not to run headlong into chancy situations, too. Smart of him.”

“--huh.” Ciri gave herself some time to turn that idea over. So many circumstances had forced her apart from Geralt, and later he’d taken more than enough risks by her side, and let her take her own… but. She thought all the times Yen had called her back to the boat for planning or preparation, while Geralt had just… disappeared, vanishing for a day or two, only to reappear with freshly-dented armor and new stories that weren’t, she was sure, the _whole_ story. She wondered what dangers he’d faced then, whether he’d sat down in ruins, amid the bodies of the things that’d nearly killed him, and pulled a little packet of needles like this one from a pouch. 

She knew better than to ask him not to take those risks: she couldn’t chain him, any more than he would her. But for that beautiful stretch of time at Kaer Morhen, rosy in her memory, the hunts had been few and careful, the risks calculated ones. Had they been doing it for Ciri, so that she didn’t lose her family twice? Or so that she didn’t take too bold a risk out of overconfidence, end up with an injury that a witcher might shrug off, but she couldn’t? “You ever think--” Ciri said at last, slowly, “--about traveling in pairs? If it’d save you from ending up with flowers embroidered on your skin, I mean.”

Edik nodded a little. “Sure, sometimes we do, especially for covering bigger caravans. I think Almeric here went with Frederic, last time he was out on the Path, right? Difficult, though, can’t cover as much ground or handle as many contracts as you can separately. Tough on the coin purse, and harder to find a place that’ll take a pair of witchers in, even for the night.” Edik shrugged.

“Mn,” Almeric said, noncommittal. His bottle of vodka was nearly empty, and Ciri had the feeling that as much of it had ended up in him as on him. Gregor was wrapping clean linen bandages around his shoulder now, tucking the ends neatly into place. 

“I think that’ll about take care of me. The rest can close on their own, and someone’ll likely put a mop in your hands if we stay here too long,” said Edik, looking about as concerned about that as he was about the threat of harpies. Moving a little stiffly, he put his medical kit away and gathered up his baldric and swords. He followed Ciri’s look. “Don’t worry, I’ll get the relic fed and put to bed, he’ll be fine.”

“The relic can walk,” Almeric said, eyeing Edik. “He can also hear you.”

Edik grinned and stood. “Drop by later if you want to check up on him. Actually, drop by anyway--I can at least offer you a rubdown in exchange for this fine embroidery. I can hear your latissimus clicking under your shoulder blade. Only going to get worse if you leave it.”

“First time anyone’s ever complimented my needlework,” Ciri said, amused in spite of herself, as she rinsed the mutagen from her fingers with the last of Edik’s vodka. She watched Gregor shake his head wryly, mouth pulled into a sidelong smile as he put away the unused supplies. _A rubdown, huh? Is that what we’re calling it these days?_ “A backrub for some stitching is quite a bargain, especially since there weren’t any flowers involved.” 

“No need, since we’re pretty enough as it is,” Edik rubbed the back of his head, his grin tilting into something a bit more suggestive.

“Hn.” Almeric hauled himself upright. “Better get that pretty ass moving; I see Adam headed this way with a mop.”

Ciri shook her head, a little amazed, as the two men headed off. Gregor eyed the bloody puddles of vodka, soaked leather scraps, and mutagen--the latter had started steaming sullenly, like it was reactive. “So. Care to go see what Grandmaster Dean wanted?”


	8. Chapter 8

“Project? What pro--” Dean, the Grandmaster Archivist, glanced at Ciri’s hands--probably spotting some lingering hint of green around her fingernails, Ciri guessed--and abruptly switched tracks. “Yes, actually, I do have a project.”

Which confirmed more or less what Ciri had suspected, then. Witchers, she reflected with a certain degree of fondness, really weren’t what she’d call experts at this whole subterfuge thing. In retrospect, it was actually quite astonishing they’d kept their mutagens secret for this long. “Let me guess. Imperial manticore matings?”

“No,” Dean cast her a profoundly irritated look. “Pedagogy.”

Which was how the Empress of Nilfgaard ended up spending several hours desperately trying to recall the alphabet rhymes Vesemir had once inflicted on her (although more for the content than the letters: _N is for Nadir, that drowns unwary waders_ ) while simultaneously corralling a pack of very small boys, most no older than five, who seemed to feel that being told to sit still was about the cruelest torment ever inflicted on mankind. 

It took her a while to hit on just the right teaching technique: a combination of bribery--one question about the ‘lady witcher’ allowed each time her students managed to give her three correct answers--and acrobatics. Not that it was an _easy_ teaching technique, because apparently the effort involved in holding a handstand increased exponentially with age. Also, some of the verses didn't even rhyme, for crying out loud. 

“Alright, good! Now, who can get through the whole thing while standing on...only one hand, this time? Piotyr? A is for Alghoul, with spines that are…” Thankfully Gregor was there to steady Ciri whenever she started to teeter, which nearly made her forgive him for being so rock-solid steady while supporting his full weight, swords and all, on his goddamn fingertips. 

By the time the boys ran off to beat rugs and carry water, Ciri’s arms felt like wet strips of seaweed. Red-faced and sweaty, she limped back out to the main library, only to be ambushed once again by Dean, this time with a demand for an accounting of all sixteen known variants of likho. Copied to _this_ scroll. Neatly, if she pleased. Best handwriting. “You know, I don’t ever recall research being quite this arduous,” Ciri muttered to herself, stuffing another likely-looking book under her arm to take back to the reading tables. 

“Not that many books where you come from?” Vesemir asked, and Ciri just about jumped out of her skin. He stepped out of a blind corner that she hadn’t noticed, one partially blocked from sight by shelving, a heavy tome of his own in his hands. “I apologize; didn’t mean to startle you.” 

_Vesemir._ Ciri had to scramble to pull together the remains of her composure. It was surprisingly difficult to do, when Vesemir was _right there_. Alive and healthy and … a stranger. Not her mentor, her ‘Uncle Vesemir,’ who once took a fierce but frightened little girl and taught her how to be strong. 

Just last year, she’d received a letter from Eskel. He wrote that he’d cleaned out Vesemir’s chests. And he enclosed a childish charcoal scribble she’d made long ago, featuring a stick figure labeled ‘Wesymer’ boldly fighting an absurdly large and bulbous rat. Ciri looked quickly down to her awkward armful of scrolls. 

“I--Growing up? Not so much--I learned my letters, but it wasn’t as if Thomas had a library to hand.” Though given the odd books Geralt sometimes ended up pulling out of his saddlebags, perhaps that was more lie than truth--or maybe Geralt just knew that rare tomes and scrolls were far more likely to win Yen’s affections than ribbons or jewelry. “Later though, there were more. Got access to some small collections to research my hunts. But none of them had anything like this--and none of the librarians were nearly as particular as Grandmaster Dean.” She gave a wry smile in the archivist’s general direction, trying for levity. But her expression flickered when she looked back to Vesemir, like a candle in a draft, she knew it. Ciri glanced down, reaching for the tight imperial control Emhyr had taken so much care to instill. 

“Mm.” Ciri couldn’t tell if Vesemir believed her story, but he didn’t seem inclined to call her on it. “Here, I can help carry some of your pile, at least.” He took a few scrolls, and they headed back towards the reading desks. “How are you finding Kaer Morhen? You seem to be fitting in well enough, all things considered.”

“Given that I’m neither fish nor fowl, you mean?” Ciri said, daring to give him a sidelong look. “At least people here are polite with their curiosity. And Kaer Morhen …” she set her scrolls down on the desk, wondering what she could say. How much of this would Vesemir remember in a hundred years’ time, when Geralt brought an orphaned princess, a thrice-over child of destiny, to Kaer Morhen for the first time? 

“It’s nothing like I’d expected,” she finally confessed. “Everyone here is--it’s so full of life. And busy!” She managed a wry smile. “From the stories, I’d imagined something more like a monastery, but with swords. Certainly not duels over underpants!”

“Mn. Such goings on, and at a respectable citadel, too.” Vesemir shook his head with a grimace of bemused exasperation. “Not likely to be the last you’ll see, either,” he pulled up a stool and sat, leaning back comfortably. “The Path can be dangerous. Makes people want to hold on harder to the brothers they have left, and they don’t always know how to grieve for the ones they’ve lost. Sometimes dealing with those frustrations, emotions--it can be a little difficult.”

 _No witcher’s ever died in his own bed, girl._ Aware that she was staring again, tracing every weathered line of Vesemir’s face, Ciri forced herself to turn to spreading out her new collection of research material. “I-- can see how they might have wanted an outlet for that stress. Don’t worry, I’m not…. I’ve seen Thomas fight before. So the duel didn’t frighten me, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

“Mn. Wasn’t.” Vesemir idly unrolled one of the scrolls she’d found. “But it sounded like you might be grappling with something similar.”

Ciri looked up, found herself trapped by that deeply familiar golden gaze. She’d grown up with witchers, and it was still easy to forget how well they could hear--even, apparently, across a crowded training yard full of shouting children. She swallowed hard. “I--” Ciri hesitated. “How do you deal with it?”

Vesemir tilted his head a little. “When those I love die? No differently than anyone else, I expect. Fighting can be a good outlet for anger. There’s some solace in honoring the dead, putting up a marker, if you can. Staying busy helps some. Myself?” He exhaled, thinking. “I’ve learned to make the most of every moment I do have with someone. And once that’s over, I keep the memories close, and tell the stories we made together.” 

Ciri nodded, mute, feeling her eyes prickle. Vesemir had once taught her to make griffon flank perogies; they’d turned out awful because she was nine and a damn princess and couldn’t tell thyme from lavender, plus she’d spilled the entire jar of fire peppers right into the mix, but everyone ate them anyway--to whom could she tell that story? Or the time she’d beaten Berengar on the killer trail, but sprained an ankle in the process, and Vesemir carried her home on his back? Or when Cöen painstakingly stitched her a small jacket that looked just like Vesemir’s favorite one, and she….

“There has to be something I can-- that can be done. It just seems like, given the risks-- I mean.” Ciri took a deep breath. “Cyryl and Marcus. No one’s heard of them for a long enough time that … so that’s two lost this year. If that’s normal, then--”

Vesemir studied her. “Always a chance they’ll come riding in next fall. Letters get lost, sometimes. It’s happened before. But, yes, one or two is average, some years.”

Perhaps this, then, was a glimpse at what her own future held. One of these years, she just… wouldn’t get a letter. No witchers would drop by an imperial quartermaster for supplies. Her spies would have no reports. And she would wonder, for a while, what corner of the empire Eskel or Lambert or even Geralt had taken themselves off to, what they might be doing… but a part of her would know. She wouldn’t be able to stop their endings, any more than she’d been able to keep Vesemir from spending his life so cheaply, throwing away all his centuries of knowledge and experience, and for what? Just to give her the barest chance at freedom, to delay the Wild Hunt a single moment longer? 

Maybe it wouldn’t happen for a while. If two witchers went missing out of eighty each year, then an average witcher spent forty years on his Path. Hers--the few that she had left--were almost thrice that age, so maybe Geralt and the others were just that good: faster, stronger, more cunning. Or maybe they were just lucky. But skills could fade, blunted by disuse or time; luck always ran out, sooner or later. Vesemir had already proved that. Or rather, would prove it, a century from now. 

Ciri bit her lip. “But--if you had some extra protection from the local baronies, or went out in pairs, then maybe fewer…” she trailed off, not even sure what she was saying. What possible good could come of any of this? Even if a few extra witchers survived another handful of years, only to perish during the assault on Kaer Morhen or its even bloodier aftermath, what difference would it make in the end? 

“Perhaps.” Vesemir said, his face set in sober lines, his golden gaze heavy with the weight of centuries. “Witchers might not have to worry about plague or wound-fever, or our bodies failing of old age, but there’s a price for that. I’d wager your Thomas knew it, just like we all do. Some of us pay it a little sooner than others, is all.”

“That doesn’t mean it … I could--” Ciri turned her face away. 

“Mind you,” Vesemir said slowly, studying her. “There’s no reason a witcher has to stay on the Path. Any of the men here could become trappers, hunters, herbalists--keep clear of the villages, live a quiet life away from folk. The school wouldn’t interfere.” He tapped a finger on the scroll, looking down, considering it. “But most of us choose to stay on the Path, even knowing where it ends.”

“I--” Some witchers surely followed the Path because they felt like they had to, because they believed there was no other place for mutated monster-hunters like them in the world. But Geralt--with a vineyard in Toussaint, the ducal favor, and the Empress of the Nilfgaardian Empire as an adopted daughter, Geralt could have hung up his swords completely and enjoyed his well-earned retirement. He’d tried to do that once, fifteen years ago; it hadn’t lasted an hour. Now … Geralt and the others, they’d gotten more particular about the contracts they took, but none of them had abandoned the Path, not entirely. “I don’t think Thomas would have called that a real choice,” said Ciri at last, quietly. 

“Nevertheless, it was his to make. Just as it is ours. And, in a way, yours.” Vesemir spread his scarred, calloused hands. “Letting someone take the risks they’re destined for, meant for--when everything in you wants to keep them safe--it’s the most difficult thing any of us will ever do.” He looked at Ciri, with those eyes that saw too much, watching her expression twist with grief. “Whatever happened--it wasn’t your fault.”

Ciri… she had to go, get out now, because she couldn’t-- “You don’t know that,” she managed to say, struggling to push herself up from the table.

“I do.” Vesemir said gruffly, his weathered face understanding. He reached out a hand. “Come here.”

And somehow, Ciri only meant to scrub at her eyes, but somehow she ended up tipped forward into his arms, the world a blur that smelled like leather and relict oil and _Vesemir._ His arms closed around her, holding gently, rubbing careful circles on her back, and Ciri… 

...Ciri couldn’t help but hug him in return, holding on so tightly that her arms shook.  
 ****

*********

  
In the end, Ciri was late for dinner again. Not only did it take a while to compose herself and reapply some kohl, feeling… oddly hollow and very tired, but somehow clean, after Vesemir left, but then a boy ran up and gave Gregor a note before scampering off. Gregor’s brows rose as he read it. “Good news?” Ciri asked, craning her neck.

Gregor handed it over. “No guard rotation needed until further notice, so long as you’re within the keep.” he said, uninflected. He hesitated. “Unless you wanted--”

Ciri read over the note. She wasn’t fool enough to imagine that this meant she would be unwatched, especially in a castle full of witchers, but. Still. “Thank you, but there’s no need. I don’t want to keep you from everything--I mean. You have gear to repair and potions to refill, just as much as everyone else.”

“Mn.” Gregor looked down. “Would you still like--to sit at our table?”

Ciri did. Simon, Marrok, Gregor, and Dorek regaled her with improbable tales of hunts gone awry, full of laughter and strange magic. It was good to sit in their company, working her gradual way through an enormous bowl of hearty goat stew and most of a loaf of bread, surrounded by easy camaraderie. By the time the little group finally broke up, it was late, and Ciri tiredly waved her farewell with every intention of heading straight back to her bed.

Instead, she found herself walking a circuit of the keep, passing through hallways and walkways eerie in their almost-familiarity. A room where she’d kept her little army of the tiny paper monsters Eskel had taught her to fold… was in this time so crammed with unfinished armor she could scarcely navigate it. Hallways once featureless were now lined with barrels of grain stacked to the ceiling. The courtyards were bitingly cold, blue in the moonlight, and empty now that the boys had been taken off to bed. She was aware, of course, that the witchers who greeted her were also subtly tracking her movements… but it felt good just to walk, to remember.

Down one hallway in the right wing, ground floor, a door was propped open by an intricately-tooled leather helmet. This part of the citadel was collapsed by Ciri’s time, but now Ciri could hear water splashing. Huh. Curious, Ciri limped ahead a bit. 

Two large cauldrons occupied the wide hearth, glowing coals heaped around the base of each. Another step--and a surprisingly large expanse of copper came into view: a claw-footed tub, big enough for a full grown man. Steam rose from the surface of the water that filled it, and--and Almeric was there, leaned back against the curved side, one arm stretched out along the rim. The crimson lines of his wounds stood out vividly against tanned, water-slick skin, with only his injured shoulder still swathed in linen wrappings. Almeric was … quite well-built, Ciri belatedly noticed, with broad shoulders and a chest heavy with muscle. More importantly, she noted with some relief that his visible wounds seemed well on their way to healing already, with no signs of infection. 

Something rattled, off to the side. The pad of bare feet slapped against the stone floor. “Fucking--you said these stretched, you lying whoreson,” Edik stalked into view, and Ciri’s mouth fell open. “--and now they’re wedged right the fuck up my a-- oh. Hello.”

“Ah … hello?” Ciri said blankly. She knew she was staring, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. Edik was wearing … something. Something that she didn’t even have the name for. They were a far cry from the lacy, gauzy braies from earlier, and even further from the more conventional knee-length linen variety that most men wore. Instead these were--very short. Not to mention skin tight, clinging like wetted silk, lovingly outlining every curve, every bulge …. Ciri tore her eyes away from the sight with an effort of will, even as she noticed the elaborate embroidery along the seams and artfully-placed straps, the kind that served to … emphasize Edik’s attributes. All of them. “I … ah, I’m sorry, I was wandering. I didn’t mean to ah, intrude ….”

“Not at all,” Edik said cheerfully, grinning at her. “Intrude away. Here for that backrub? We could probably also offer a bath, assuming we can roust Almeric out of there before he turns into a stewed prune.” 

“Are … you sure?” Ciri said doubtfully. Admittedly, the offer of a bath was beyond tempting--she’d been making do with cold sponge-baths when she could, but if there was one imperial luxury she missed more than any other, it was the palace baths, with their endless supply of perfumed hot water, piped directly in and warmed by the hypocaust. Lambert would no doubt accuse her of getting soft, but there was no denying the fact that she felt--well, grimy, given her exertions the last few days. “You and Almeric seem to be enjoying your, ah, privacy,” she added.

Edik snorted. “If you mean Almeric’s enjoying both the bath and watching me prance around in this bit of frippery, then you wouldn’t be far wrong.” A faint flush stained his cheekbones, the first hint of embarrassment she’d seen from him. “That said, Almeric likes looking at pretty things. Especially other people wearing pretty things, the deviant bastard. I do owe you that rubdown, so as long as you don’t mind--err, don’t worry though, you can wear what you’d like. I don’t think Almeric even has women’s underthings.” He grinned at her, though a bit more sheepishly this time.

Ciri glanced over at Almeric, who was watching them both. He raised a brow at Edik’s estimation of the extent of his collection, but gave her a nod, showing no sign that either Edik’s confession or his invitation bothered him in the slightest. “Plenty of hot water left,” he said.

“You look half-asleep already,” Edik added, “but I do have white myrtle petals, if you like.”

Ciri’s breath left her all in a rush. “That sounds just wonderful,” she said. “And I don’t mind a bit. Almeric clearly has good taste,” she added, rewarded this time with a blush that went all the way down to Edik’s chest. He did, too--the black leather decorative straps hugged the place where Edik’s abs and hip flexors met, showing off each dip and groove, while the silk--Ciri cleared her throat, pretty sure she might be blushing too. 

Edik scrubbed a hand through his wet hair. “Come on in then, grab a seat. We’ll get that splint right off.” 

Ciri looked around as she hobbled inside. It reminded her of the room Geralt had claimed for himself in Kaer Morhen--warm and well lived in, with the entire feathered part of a griffon’s hide covering most of one wall, and the leonine furred part of the hide spread out across the bed, along with several wolf pelts. There was a permanent-looking potions workbench against one wall, beside a grindstone wheel, and neat racks of armor repair and leatherworking supplies. The organization of most of the room seemed at odds with a cheerfully chaotic pile of gear heaped in a corner. “This is really nice,” Ciri said, settling down into a chair that was rather better built than most of the ones in the keep.

“Well, Almeric is here every other summer or so, training,” Edik said, kneeling in front of her. “So it’s nice to have a little extra space. Not that that’s the _only_ reason I bunk here….”

Almeric gave a soft rumble of amusement as he reached to let the water out of the tub, which splashed into a pipe running through the wall. As it drained, he pushed himself up out of the water, revealing an expanse of scarred, wet skin without a hint of self-consciousness. Ciri thought about averting her eyes; then decided that if Almeric didn’t care, she certainly wasn’t going to deprive herself of the chance to get a good look. And Almeric, like most of the other witchers she’d seen so far in this era, was certainly worth looking at, with scars that mapped a whole new constellation of patterned light and shadow across his skin, intricate as a full-body tattoo.

Edik’s hands were quick but careful as be unwound her splint. “You’re healing up well,” he said approvingly, cupping a hand over the break. The skin was still hot and swollen, but not painfully tender, like it had been.

“I’m just glad to see that the two of you are healing, as well,” Ciri said, tracing the line of a deep cut, now just a red seam across Edik’s bicep, faintly cross-hatched where the stitches went. She could barely even see the thread. She glanced back over at Almeric, who had wrapped a cloth around his hips and was heading to one of the steaming cauldrons of water. “How’s the shoulder?”

“We’ll change the bandages tonight and check, but--you’ve got full movement now, right?” Edik asked. 

Almeric nodded. “Should be able to use it for everyday tasks by day after tomorrow,” he said. If there was any lingering stiffness or pain from his wounds, it didn’t show. “I’ll be able to fight by the end of the week.” 

Ciri was a bit relieved--and struck, once again, by the differences between these witchers and the ones she knew. Just judging by the shallower cuts in his flesh, Almeric’s recovery was remarkable; a normal man would have been bedridden for weeks, assuming he were lucky enough to escape infection. But… she’d seen Geralt take similar ‘small’ injuries like those cuts, and they’d vanished within hours. Was the difference due to the extra rounds of mutations he’d suffered through during his Trials? Or the more advanced mutagens that first he--and now Eskel and Lambert as well--used?

Almeric crouched down near one of the cauldrons, as if he intended to lift it, and Ciri stiffened in belated alarm. The cauldrons were cast iron, large and heavy even without the extra weight of the water. With it, even a witcher might have difficulty lifting one, especially when said witcher was already injured. If Almeric tore something open ... “Wait-”

Almeric reached out with his good arm, touched the lip of the cauldron, and spoke a word of Power. A glyph flashed blue on the bottom wall of the cauldron, near the coals--and the water began to disappear, dropping down as if Almeric had suddenly uncorked a hole at the bottom. A few feet away, an identical glyph glowed on the side of the emptied tub, and Ciri goggled as steaming water began to fill it once more. “What the--what is that?” She’d never seen anyone outside of sorceresses use magic so casually, or for such mundane tasks. How was Almeric _doing_ that?

Almeric glanced over. “Glyph of transference,” he said, nodding at the glowing symbols. “They move material--liquids, usually--over short distances when activated.” 

“They’re not much use out on the road,” Edik put in, rummaging around in his pouches, the strap of which had been slung over the chair. He came up with a paper packet, and tossed it to Almeric, who snatched it out of the air with his left hand. “Slow, fussy, difficult to inscribe. The same glyph-master has to create both vessels you want to pair up. But it’s damn useful for something like this. Means we don’t have to spend half the night hauling water back and forth, anyway.”

Ciri blinked, as Almeric emptied the paper packet into the bath. A warm, subtle camphor and black pepper scent ghosted up, and Ciri could almost feel herself relaxing, airways opening wide. “That’s … amazing. And surprisingly creative.” She’d never seen glyphs used in such a way before, even in the various courts she’d attended. Was this another thing that had been lost over the years as the Monstrum had begun to circulate, and the witch hunts and purges had started in the North?

“Kaer Morhen might be on the ass-end of the Blue Mountains, but it does have its perks,” Edik said cheerfully. “You want any help with the rest? Also, soak first, then backrub?” 

“Sounds perfect,” Ciri smiled. “And no, I can wriggle out of these things, if you’ll see to Almeric’s shoulder?”

Edik grinned and shook his head. “Insistent, aren’t you? Alright, let me help finish with the water--”

Ciri snagged a towel from a neat stack of them, then undressed while Almeric and Edik traded jabs over the temperature of the water, the cauldrons, the soap, and the state of Almeric’s shoulder injury. Finally, Edik managed to chivvy the elder witcher over to sit on the bed, and then he went looking for the roll of fresh bandages he was certain must be in one of these saddlebags. Somewhere.

Leaving her clothing in a neat pile, Ciri held carefully to the edge of the copper tub while she stepped in, and had to bite back a throttled groan. The water was hot enough to sting momentarily, prickling wonderfully at chilled skin until she adjusted. White myrtle petals swirled all around her feet. Gasping a little, Ciri discarded her towel and eased herself down into the fragrant, enveloping heat. 

“--ploughing--how did that get all wadded up? Is this fucking candy, all melted into the--? I swear--” Edik was pretty busy sorting through his packs, a process which seemed to involve a lot of bending over and crouching, so that the curves of his muscles flexed against the straps of his undergarment in a way that…. Ciri glanced guiltily over to Almeric, but he seemed thoroughly entertained, leaning back against a pillow, his gaze lingering openly on Edik’s ass. 

So, Ciri watched too, even as her muscles unknotted slowly in the wonderful heat. 

“Aha! Finally!” Edik came up with clean bandages and a small tin jar. And then Ciri was treated to a view of him climbing over the bed to get to Almeric’s right shoulder, which--wow. She was starting to think that Almeric had a point about the underpants. Maybe she could institute a few fashion reforms at court …. Edik prodded Almeric to sit forward, then expertly began unwinding the stained and damp linen that protected his wounded shoulder. The process didn’t take long, and the ugly wound was soon visible, Gregor’s stitches pale against swollen skin. It wasn’t a pleasant sight, and still looked red and raw. 

Edik however, clicked his tongue in satisfaction when he saw it, and began using fingertips to stroke an unguent over the damaged flesh. “See, Falka? No infection, no seepage, and it’s already starting to knit,” he called over his shoulder to her. “Almeric won’t be tossing javelins with that arm for a week or two, but he’ll be back in the saddle in a few days--in more ways than one.” He gave her an absurdly exaggerated leer, eyebrows wiggling. Ciri rolled her eyes, shaking her head, and without changing expression, Almeric cuffed Edik on the side of the head with his good hand. 

“Be polite, if you want the lady to stay,” he said gruffly. 

Ciri sank lower in the water with a sigh, giving him a smile. “Thank you, Almeric.” Not that she was offended, but now that she no longer had Gregor as her shadow, it was nice to see that the witchers were prepared to rein each other in a bit, if the innuendo got a little too forward. 

“I’d like to remind you that of the two of us, who exactly is the pervert in this room?” Edik retorted, grinning. But his touch stayed gentle as he finished smearing a fine layer of the ointment over Almeric’s shoulder and reached for the fresh roll of bandages. 

“Mm, maybe. But the ladies don’t seem to complain,” Almeric said easily.

“Mine don’t either!”

“How many weren’t actually succubi, cutpurses, illusions, a transformed goat, or twelve years old?”

“That was an honest mistake! All of those, honest mistakes! And I certainly didn’t--” 

Ciri grinned, tipping her head back and closing her eyes as the two men continued to banter, trading barbs about each other’s conquests--or lack thereof--while on the Path. 

Edik finished up with Almeric’s shoulder at about the same time Ciri felt like she would melt into a gelatinous puddle if she stayed in much longer. “I have ensured that Almeric’s arm won’t fall off, as the lady commanded,” he announced grandly, coming over. “You’re looking a bit flushed. Ready for that backrub yet?”

“Mmph. Yes. Just one more minute--” Ciri managed. “Did you say there was some soap?”

“Soap and rinse-water, coming right up,” Edik said. Retrieving these objects for her, however, involved him bending over a number of times in that way that definitely did its part to keep her awake. It almost looked like… Great Sun almighty, did those smallclothes come with some kind of a band around him, under the fabric? “On your front on the bed, whenever you’re ready. I’ll go find some oils,” he added, a little too much twinkle in his eyes to maintain the illusion that he was completely oblivious to the effect he was having. 

Swallowing hard, Ciri set herself to scrubbing up, while Edik went to paw through his things again. Almeric, however, looked between Ciri’s towel, puddled on the damp floor, and her little stack of folded clothing. While the imperial wardrobe hexes did a fair job of keeping them clean, such spells weren’t perfect. Ciri had been rinsing out the breast-band and the underwear in cold water for the last four days, and they showed it. Americ gestured subtly to Edik the next time the younger witcher went by, and Edik obediently dragged a trunk out of the shadows for him. 

“Oh, Melitele’s tits,” Edik said, once he’d flipped the lid up. He buried his face in his palm.

“Those ones,” Almeric nodded, then looked to Ciri. “Still don’t have to wear them,” he added, seeming for the first time perhaps a little abashed. “Just if you could use another set.” Edik helpfully lifted up a hooked strap of lovely malachite green fabric, shining like very thick, fine silk. 

Ciri let the water out of the tub and toweled off, considering. On the one hand, clean underthings. On the other … they were _Almeric’s_ underthings. Cleanliness won out over propriety. “Yes, I would, actually. Many thanks,” she finally decided, slinging the towel over the side of the copper tub. The matched underthings were actually fairly conservative, albeit beautifully made, with just a little lace around the waist, and they slid on as easily as if they’d been sized just for her. 

“Anything you’re sensitive to?” Edik asked after she’d lain down on her stomach, head pillowed on her folded arms, facing the foot of the bed. He sounded kind of...breathless. “Old injuries, places so ticklish you’ll kick me in the head?” 

“Mmm, nothing comes to mind,” Ciri said lazily. She had her share of scars, but thankfully little permanent damage beneath them. 

“All right. Tell me if I’m rubbing too hard, or if anything hurts,” Edik said, kneeling next to her on the bed and uncorking a vial. He rolled it between his hands, warming it, and a spicy, flowery scent wafted out. Drizzling a small amount onto her skin, he began on her lower back, strong fingers massaging it into the skin. There was something in the oil itself that made her skin tingle. Edik was achingly careful at first, keeping his touch light.

“You know, despite the circumstances of my arrival, I’m not _that_ fragile,” Ciri finally commented, turning her head to give him a pointed look. “Trust me. I’m tougher than I look.” 

“Sorry,” Edik said sheepishly. “It’s been awhile since I did this for--well, anyone who wasn’t a witcher.” But he took her at her word, and put more strength behind his massage, calloused hands bearing down in skilled circles, rubbing the lingering remnants of tension out of her back muscles. Ciri could feel her spine unkinking under Edik’s hands, and sighed in pleasure.

“Yes, just like that. Thank you …” she breathed. Between the warmth, the pleasure of skilled hands slipping over her skin, the thick fur under her, and the luxury of finally being clean... it was rapidly becoming difficult to think. 

Edik began moving higher, hesitating at the breastband. “May I?” he asked politely, and Ciri nodded. Oil stains were nearly impossible to remove from silk, she knew. Besides, Edik’s hands felt too good to have anything in the way. He deftly unhooked the band, letting it puddle to either side of her torso, and began rubbing long, slow sweeps upwards, to either side of her spine, using the heels of his hands as much as his fingertips. He finally reached her shoulders, her neck, and she sighed in pleasure as he delicately manipulated muscles that had been kinked by her constant use of the crutch, deftly stroking away any aches or tension.

Edik was indefatigable, chasing down every last tight sinew and misaligned joint, working his fingertips in soothing little circles even between the bones of her forearms, her palms, the outside curve of her thighs, back of one knee, the tendons of her feet. He avoided the broken leg and the vivid green panties, but everything else from scalp to toes got its share of devoted attention. 

“Want me to do your front?” Edik asked, stroking gently along the fine bones of her ankle, fingertips sliding up her calf. 

“Mrgph-es,” Ciri managed, with a concerted effort of will.

Edik hooked her breastband closed, then helped her turn over. The magelight must have been shuttered; only a single candle still burned on Almeric’s side of the bed, casting its glow over a book in his lap. A bit less than his full attention was on the pages, however--he watched Edik from time to time, or Ciri, eyes gleaming a reflective gold. 

Edik started with her hands, shoulders, and then her face, the oil tingling faintly at her temples, behind her ears, the curve of her jaw as he stroked it in with calloused thumbs and a gentle grip. Edik worked his way down her sides, thumbs cupping just under her breasts, the green silk shining even under this indirect light. There, he paused. “Could I kiss you here?” he asked. 

Ciri nodded, then drew a shuddering breath as he pressed his lips to the satiny fabric, kissing through it, dragging lips over her hardening nipples. He licked soft, open-mouthed kisses onto her skin, just where the edge of the green silk lay, until Ciri purred in delight and every movement made the fabric rasp over her raised nipples. But all too soon, he drew back, panting for a moment. He swallowed, then moved down, along her flanks and thighs, leaving her breasts feeling heavy, aching for more. One muscle at a time, Edik worked his way from her toes back to her center, the massage oil a sweet heat along her inner thighs, where the skin was thinnest. Then, gently, he spread his hands across her belly.

Edik took great care with the stomach massage, mapping out every inch with his fingers so as not to bruise her, head tilted and leaning in as if to pinpoint the location of tender internal parts by sound alone. Strokes finally slowing to light, open-palmed sweeps of her body, Edik bent his head a little more, inhaling where silk and lace bordered skin, near her tiny rose tattoo, just inside the curve of her hip. 

Ciri blinked down at him, feeling far too good to object, even as a frisson of desire sparked at the sight. “May I ...?” Edik asked hopefully, breath ghosting over her skin. Some remnant of coherent thought had her glancing over at Almeric--it _was_ his bed, after all--only to find him no longer even pretending to read, eyes hot and intent as he watched them both. 

Her lips curved into a smile. Both men had gone out of their way to make her feel … not only welcome, but treasured. It was more arousing by far than any courtly gestures or declarations, and she wanted suddenly to return the favor. She lifted her hands, deliberately skimming them up over her hollowed belly, her breasts, the green silk, turning the movement into a sensual, full-body writhe, feeling the furs beneath drag at sensitized skin. She heard the shift in Edik’s breathing, the catch as she arched her hips up slightly, her thighs falling open just a fraction more, the scent of her burgeoning arousal wafting from the warmed silk between her legs. “You may,” she told Edik, “Although I’m certainly hoping you don’t stop there …” 

Edik didn’t need to be asked twice; he put his mouth on her skin, inhaling deeply, tracing the lacy edge of Almeric’s gift with his tongue. The hot, wet sensation made her shiver, nipples pebbling as Edik curved hands over her hips--not to keep her in place, but to lift her upwards, so that he could lick and nuzzle, rubbing the side of his face against the softness of her belly, his nose and lips over the silk-covered mound below. He mouthed at the curve of silk along one hip, following it down with his tongue to the juncture of her thighs, licking at the dampness he found there, tugging at the fabric with his teeth. 

An impatient whine escaped her throat as Ciri reached down, trying to hook thumbs in the silk, slip it off her hips to give him even more access--only to have Edik catch her wrists, and gently pull them away, pinning them to the bed. He looked up, eyes gleaming, his chin brushing against her belly--and Ciri realized that his attentions weren’t only for her benefit. Almeric hadn’t moved, hadn’t said a word--but his arousal was visible beneath the towel, his attention riveted on the two of them. He hadn’t even touched himself. 

Gently, Ciri tugged at a wrist. Edik let it go without resistance, but his brows furrowed just a tiny bit and he lifted his head as if to speak--and then Ciri brought her hand to her silk-clad breast. She caressed the places Edik had kissed, feeling the wet fabric rasp and slide over her pebbled nipples. Almeric caught his breath, hard. “But I wouldn’t want to damage such lovely things as these,” she husked, tilting her hips in a silent plea. 

“Yours will clean,” Almeric said, rasping a little.

Edik’s lips curved in a slow smile. Moving leisurely, he shifted to straddle her uninjured leg, so as to have better access to the wet silk. “You heard the man,” he said, breath curling through the fine fabric. His tongue followed the words, pressing delicately against her covered slit. He teased the silk between her lips, until he could outline her clit through the material. 

It was--oh, oh. So… rough in places and satiny smooth in others, sliding and catching on that sensitive skin, driving sharp little judders of sensation that -- ah! Ciri writhed, twisted, pinching at her own covered breasts now, as Edik lapped at her through the silk. The movement revealed a certain advantage to her position, though, as her ankle and the top of her foot pressed up against Edik’s trapped cock.

The witcher hissed in a breath, a high-pitched whine of need, golden eyes slitting open at the contact. He fell to attending to her desperately, hungrily, now sometimes daring to flick his tongue under the stitched edges of the material, directly over her skin. He drew back only to press kisses along the line of her belly, the curve of her hip, before coming back to lap at her moisture again.

So naturally, Ciri tried it again, twisting slowly through her own pleasure, feeling out the confines of his silken prison. Edik was hard, and obviously had been for some time, cock trapped against his belly by the tight silk, balls held proudly forward by that band she could just glimpse. Her eyes met Almeric’s over Edik’s bent head, and the obvious enjoyment in that golden gaze brought … interesting ideas to mind. “I wonder …” she murmured, gasping as Edik placed little suckling kisses down the center of the soaked fabric between her thighs, “... do you think you could come, just from this?” Feeling wonderfully wicked, she rocked her foot, pressing the top of it against the warmth of his confined balls, slowly rubbing it back and forth. “Come all over that lovely fabric? All that leather; I can’t imagine it cleans so well as this silk does. Do you think Almeric would even allow you?” 

Ciri caught Almeric’s eye, giving him an impish smile. She’d never had the opportunity to really push a witcher to the limits of control before …. “Maybe he wouldn’t,” she purred. “After all, we wouldn’t want to ruin such lovely underthings. So maybe he’ll do whatever it takes to keep you right on the edge, even as you do your best to please me. You could tease, and kiss, and touch anything you want--everything you want--but you still won’t be able to come. Not until we let you.” From the rather poleaxed expression on Almeric’s face, he liked that idea a very, very great deal.

Edik _growled_ against her, teeth scraping against her inner thigh as he dragged his lips there, bringing his hands down to grasp her hips, to tilt them for easier access. Snarling, he licked at her, the edge of his thumb rubbing against her silk-covered clit, even as he ground his sheathed cock against her shin. Hands free, Ciri carded her fingers through his hair, hips jerking as he worked his tongue under the edge of the silk, all smooth and soft in contrast to being touched through the fabric--

“--Behave yourself,” Almeric rasped, and Ciri hadn’t even realized that he’d moved, pushing to his knees behind Edik. He smoothed his good hand down the other witcher’s flank, calluses catching on each of the younger man’s raised scars, and tugged at a thin leather strap, one of several that ran down to the band fit snuggly around him. 

Edik choked on a gasp, struggling to get his knees under him, to press his hips up into that controlling pull. “--Please--” he managed, panted breath hot against Ciri’s skin, until Almeric had him exactly where he wanted him, ass presented high, mouth still pressed against the wet green silk. 

Ciri’s nails dug against Edik’s scalp, just enough to bring his attention back to her. “I don’t believe he told you to stop,” she purred, drawing him up just a little. Those golden eyes flashed in mingled irritation and frustrated desire, but Edik did as he was bid, devoting lips and tongue and teeth to her pleasure. 

Humming in approval, Almeric eased his grasp, running his fingers over the straps instead. Stroking, adjusting … almost as if they were reins, as if Almeric was expertly controlling the half-wild mount beneath him. And the sounds Edik made as he was touched, tugged back when he lurched forward, restrained from taking his own pleasure--the quiet cries, the gasped half-pleas between kisses--oh, Great Sun. He was beautiful, skin sheened with sweat. In the end, it only took the tip of a finger, pressed against her through the silk even as Edik suckled at her, and Ciri came undone, writhing with the cascade of sensation.

Edik drove her through it, each nibbling kiss clenching her tighter. And she couldn’t-- even with fingers fisted in his hair, she couldn’t--it was too much, too good--and then he finally broke away from her over-sensitized flesh with a whimper, shuddering. Almeric had hooked his fingers under that strap again, only releasing him when Ciri’s gasping slowed, when she could finally open her eyes. Edik knelt between her thighs, on his elbows, trembling. 

“Perhaps, Edik,” said Almeric slowly, reaching one-handed to thumb the cork out the thin glass vial of massage oil--the same stuff that had left her skin tingling and heated. “Perhaps you need a better distraction.” He glanced over Edik’s shoulder and gave her an arch look, lifting the vial in silent suggestion. 

Even in her dazed state, Ciri was pretty sure she knew what Almeric had in mind, and wholeheartedly approved. She lifted up one cupped hand, and he poured a small amount into her palm. Dipping her fingers into the oil, she drew the tips lightly down Edik’s chest, then back up, and over the curve of his arched throat. Edik gasped, eyes slitting closed in agonized pleasure as Almeric did the same, one calloused hand stroking down his spine, spreading the tingling-hot oil over each of the thin red trails left earlier by the edge of Almeric’s blade. 

“We’ve been so neglectful, haven’t we?” Ciri purred. “Without a thought given to _your_ needs …. On the other hand-” she dragged her nails down oiled skin, a little more lightly over the healing cuts, to circle pebbled nipples, then moving even lower, flexing fingers into his taut abdomen as Edik panted desperately, as if he couldn’t get enough air, “-perhaps you haven’t convinced Almeric that you deserve anything more than this?” 

Edik arched into her with a throttled groan, only to jerk in reaction as Almeric tugged sharply at one of the straps, pulling him away. “That’s not what I want to hear,” he said mildly, even as he stroked a hand down Edik’s ass, skimming over the long muscles of thigh and calf, carefully avoiding touching anything that might give the other witcher relief. From the front, Ciri did the same, enjoying every gasp, every whimper as she stroked oil over Edik’s sides, over his arms, tracing the lifelines of arteries and veins that Geralt had so carefully shown her. Following their winding paths downward, further, past the rippled muscles of stomach and abdomen, to the straining cock tightly bound by silk and leather … fingertips teasing just at the edge of the fabric. Toying with it, as if she _might_ go further … until Edik broke. 

“F-fuck, Almeric, you bastard, please, please … let me out, give me your hand, touch me, anything,” he begged, arching wildly between them, golden gaze feral in desperation, fingers digging into the mattress. “Don’t keep me like this, Almeric … Falka, let me fuck you, I’m begging you, please -- or fuck me, you goddamn…” He was shaking with need, every fiber of his body taut in frustration as he was kept from orgasm. 

“Good boy,” Almeric rumbled, his voice gone deep and dark, sending shivers down Ciri’s spine. “That’s right, just right.” He fitted himself to the curve of Edik’s back, rubbing his own erection against Edik’s ass. “What do you think, Falka? Do you want to reward him for being so honest?”

Shivering in anticipation, Ciri nodded. Almeric reached down, deftly undoing a pair of straps with his good hand. The fabric art of the smallclothes pulled away, revealing Edik’s cock, flushed red, hard and weeping--and he hadn’t only been confined by the silk. A leather sheath, closed by tiny flat studs, jacketed the base of his cock. Edik jerked in reaction, hips flexing--and Almeric wrapped a hand around the other man’s balls. “Patience, Edik--you don’t want to disappoint the lady, do you?” 

“Nnngh--” Edik’s breath left him in a hiss as the oil coating Almeric’s hand started to soak in. He pushed back, struggling, trying to lift himself up--to push into that grip or away from it, Ciri couldn’t tell. 

Almeric growled, a deep rumble against the back of Edik’s neck. “I see you’ll need a reminder,” he snarled, biting down on the meat of Edik’s shoulder, even as he used his grip to drag Edik back, Almeric’s own hips shifting. And Ciri saw the moment when those golden eyes went wide, unfocused, when Edik cried out, unprepared, like the air had been struck from him. Because Almeric… had slicked himself with that same oil.

Watching Edik be taken over her, between her thighs--it was--was beautiful, Edik’s every muscle standing taut, teeth bared in a desperate snarl of fire and pleasure, each hard push plunging a little deeper until Edik was flush with Almeric’s lap, seated on him, impaled there. The younger witcher sobbed each time Almeric ground up into him, writhing abjectly, lost in sensation. 

Ciri licked her lips, watching Edik be fucked on that thick cock, watching him cry out and shake with each new degree of penetration. Every time he moved too much, tried to writhe too far, Almeric dragged him back down, onto himself, controlling Edik’s every desperate twist. She couldn’t--couldn’t help it, and she hooked her thumbs at the sides of her panties, slipping them down just an inch, just enough to push the fabric aside so she could--

\--the tingling started right away, a slow heat that warmed steadily to a sweetly aching burn. There was still oil left on her hands, Ciri realized belatedly, but even so she couldn’t bring herself to stop, because this was-- Edik was watching her, Ciri realized, eyes hazed, drugged on sensation. 

“P-please,” Edik gasped, as Almeric surged up into him, the thick muscles of his abdomen rippling. “Please,” he sobbed again, not fighting anymore, cock straining the thin leather sheath. 

“Almeric,” she gasped, reaching out, fingertips not quite touching Edik’s erect flesh. “Shall I--?”

“Yes,” Almeric growled, his face taut with the effort to control his own climax. He urged Edik forward and she helped ease them both down, conscious of both her leg and Almeric’s shoulder. Edik had enough thought left to him to support his weight on his hands. Edik hissed as Ciri’s slick fingers wrapped around him, stroking swollen skin and leather sheath alike. 

All of them were too aroused for foreplay, too close to the edge; she pulled aside the wet fabric, spreading herself open with one hand in invitation, guiding the dripping head of his cock down to nuzzle at her folds. 

Edik thrust deep, almost sobbing in relief as he sank into her heat. Ciri arched, gasping, hands clutching at him, using her good leg to brace a foot against the furs and roll her hips upward. Every part of her felt like it was burning, sensitive beyond bearing now, even as Edik filled her, the hot length of his cock spearing deep. The studded texture of the leather felt--alien, thick and wonderfully good, and she was so wet it pressed into her smoothly, until the shaped base nudged hard against her clit. And behind him, Almeric controlled them both, dictating the pace of their pleasure with every heavy thrust and withdrawal, setting up a punishing rhythm. “Yes,” she choked out, “Oh yes, Edik, deeper-”

Edik did his best to comply, hips snapping forward, only to push back into his own impalement. A few more hard thrusts, and then Almeric let go of his hip and reached around. Pulling Edik away from her, ignoring Ciri’s frustrated whine, he undid the leather band around the other witcher’s cock with a deft twist of his fingers. “Falka,” he growled. “ _Take_ him.” And thrust deep, pushing Edik into her.

Ciri had lost all sense of who was taking and who was being taken. Surrounded by heat, her skin burning with sensation, she hung on desperately, fingers digging into Edik’s back and hips hard enough to bruise, dragging him into her after every withdrawal. Almeric’s muscled chest brushed against her grip as he rode Edik from behind, controlling him with his thighs and one hand. With a vibrating cry, she fell over the precipice, winding herself around Edik, dragging his hips down. As she climaxed, she felt him stiffen; Edik came with a hoarse, almost agonized cry, spasming as he thrust, cock pushing deep inside her, filling her with his seed. 

Even then, Almeric didn’t let up, pushing heavily into Edik’s body, keeping all three of them locked together even as Ciri and Edik both shuddered through their orgasms. Almeric rode Edik through his climax--and when Edik finally went limp, he at last took his own pleasure, pulling out at the last moment to come over the other man’s back, seed spurting over the tangle of straps and silk that still hung off Edik’s hips. 

All three breathed hard, limbs and bodies intertwined, coming down only slowly from the precipice they’d reached. It took Ciri… minutes probably, she wasn’t sure--to realize that Edik’s weight was uncomfortable, his hips keeping her leg at an angle that twinged. She had only begun to contemplate mustering up the energy to actually do anything about the state of affairs, though, when he moved, getting his elbows under him, still trembling. 

Edik blinked down at her with about the most flattering expression she’d ever seen on a lover: gaze awestruck, almost reverent, as he checked her over--no doubt looking for any hint of bruises or abrasions. “Please--tell me you’re not an illusion,” he said finally, hoarsely. 

Ciri smiled a little. “Not a transformed goat, either,” she reassured him, stroking sweat-soaked golden hair back from his eyes. She focused on Almeric as he settled back on his heels, a bit unsteadily, and started to unwind the tangle of straps from Edik’s hips. “I hope we haven’t ruined that. I--really liked the--the ring part?” She didn’t even have a word for it, whatever it was, but… the way the base came together in a textured prow, the tiny studs all along the length…. Just thinking about it drove her to tighten around Edik’s softening cock, making them both shudder anew.

“No harm done. And I have others,” Almeric finally succeeded in getting the webwork off Edik, and tossed it atop a chest. “Some with different tooling. One in shark hide.”

Like Zireael’s hilt wrappings. Ciri definitely couldn’t keep herself from an involuntary clench this time, despite the heavy lassitude stealing over her limbs. 

Edik bent his head into her hand with a soft groan. “Let me--ah, wow. Let me get you a cloth; the water’s still warm. And a change of--er, if you wanted--. Will you... sleep here?” he asked hopefully.

Almeric rumbled a quiet sound of amusement, but reached over to push down the edge of the furs and blankets at the head of the bed, and Ciri supposed that was invitation enough. She blinked up. “You might have to carry me, if you wanted me anyplace else.”

Edik’s unguarded smile was brilliant. “Not a chance of that.”


	9. Chapter 9

Down one of the long rows of shelves in the library, in a dim section, the magelamps unlit, Ciri found the school’s records.

She paged through the first few as furtively as she could, considering the age and fragility of the paper--until Dean stalked up and told her that if she was looking for Thomas, she should start with the top row of tomes.

So she did. None of these records would survive the coming century; they were already fragile, even the ones that had been painstakingly copied to somewhat newer vellum. The oldest of the books seemed to go back four hundred years, so long ago that Alzur and Cosimo must have only begun the experimentation that would lead to the full mutations of the witchers Ciri knew.

Nothing was laid out in any kind of order--pages of listed deaths and new arrivals in spidery script could come next to reports of glacier conditions, historical events, notable contracts, or monster sightings. Sometimes the years were jumbled, or material had been filled in later; someone had even doodled tiny monsters and nude women all over a few of the pages. The spelling was often so atrocious that some passages could only be read by silently sounding out the words. But this--here in front of her was the history of Kaer Morhen. Everything from how many bushels of grain had reached the citadel in the year 862, to how much gold or other supplies each witcher donated (Adalbert was the clear winner so far, with fifty-four ounces in 1076; she found him presumed dead fifteen years later), to the ages and numbers of recruits.

There was nothing about the mutagens themselves, or the Trials, which was probably why Dean didn’t feel the need to keep Ciri away from these tomes. Still, she could infer quite a lot, even without those details. Active witchers had been specially instructed to hunt bruxae almost every year after 942, so those mutagens must have become an important part of the mix around then.  In 874, the scarlet fever had struck Kaer Morhen hard. The death records were clear: it had killed both witchers and trainees as well as civilian staff, so the mutagens must not have granted immunity to disease at that point. It made sense; she knew that Alzur completed his work with the witchers and vanished from the historical record around 950, but she hadn’t realized how long mutagens had been in development.

As the ages passed, the recruits grew progressively younger, from adult men ranging from eighteen to twenty up until the 920s, to boys just a few years old in recent years. It was almost a shock when she saw Geralt’s name… listed as arriving in 1177, his appearance tucked away in a longer listing of supplies and trade goods, marked only with the brief notation: “abandoned with autumn caravan at Tabrzeg.” From the number of boys’ names with similar notations, Tabrzeg must be the trading crossroads out in the foothills, at the start of the path to Kaer Morhen. Geralt would have been under three years old. So young. Too young to remember much of the mother--or father--who had left him there.

Ciri didn’t know how much was true of the monster reports, given that they were recorded from the verbal accounts of returning witchers; even the newer ones seemed to her to be grossly exaggerated. Or, for that matter, how much of the reports remarking on current events she could believe: fragments of stories on the founding of Novigrad, observations of the expulsion of the elves in Dol Blathanna, even a report--from the unique perspective of a witcher who had managed to get himself entangled in local politics--of the fall of the House of Cousfax. If these records were accurate, however, it would revolutionize her era’s understanding of history.

All in all, it took several days to get through a fair portion of the texts, distracted as she was by other demands on her attention from both trainees and adult witchers alike. But the reading was fascinating, and as time passed, she gradually began to get a sense of the current political climate outside Kaer Morhen’s walls, the interplay of townships and baronies, the borders of human habitation in this age.

Ciri couldn’t help but smile as she read over a witcher’s description of proliferating movable-type printing presses, about thirty years ago: _'--an overabununs of buks and pamflets such as mite confuuz and harm yong minds--'._  There was also a much more recent entry, the vellum pages still clean and crisp: _'--a reverend newly appointed to Palatinate in Novigrad, much beloved by the common folk and with such devotees as may surround such an individual, hath ordered a grand rostrum by which to conduct his sermons, tirades, and homilies, which hitherto he hath distributed from the easternmost hangman’s scaffolding, the dais to be appointed in wyvern scale, this material being widely believed to remain untouched in the presence of flame. Disposition: upon being informed that wyvern scale burned as readily as any such tough and fibrous material, the Palatinate Lebioda took the matter under advisement, and thereupon prayed and fasted before the undying flame for two days, and thence inquired as to the suitability of dragonscale, whereupon the contract was refused.'_

Lebioda. Ciri wasn’t terribly familiar with the assorted saints of the Church of the Eternal Flame, but--the era would be about right, wouldn’t it? Lebioda was still revered in Toussaint, where he’d supposedly traveled extensively; according to legend, the Duchess Anna Henrietta’s great grandmother had met him and been much taken by his teachings. Ciri had never been particularly enamored of the Church, especially given its eventual pogroms against nonhumans and magic-users, and much of her religious instruction had, of necessity, been focused on Nilfgaard’s own worship of the Great Sun. Still, the mention of dragonscales and Lebioda stirred a vague memory of … something. The barest ticklings of a recollection, perhaps. Frowning, Ciri set the tome aside, resolving to look at it again later.

A polite cough came from behind her. “Any luck finding your Thomas?” The scent of elemental sulfur and celandine made her skin prickle even as Ciri turned, knowing who she was likely to see behind her.

Sebastian shuffled the wooden heel of his boot across the library’s stone floor. She’d never seen the mage here--and rarely enough in the courtyard or anyplace else, come to think of it. The laboratories were clearly his domain--his lair, Frederic would have said. That meant he’d come hunting her. “No,” said Ciri flatly.

“Ah, well ....” Sebastian’s reagent-stained fingers rubbed at the edge of the rolled scroll he held. “I’m afraid we--got off to a bad start? Er … may I sit?”

Ciri settled back in her chair, eyeing the mage. This, at least, was familiar territory; since ascending the throne, she’d dealt with more petitioners than she could count. She paused--just long enough to make Sebastian worry whether his request would be rejected out of hand--then gave him a bare nod. “You may.”

“Ah, thank you.” Sebastian scuffled about, pulling over a chair and settling into it, fussing with his robes. “I--well, I’ve come to apologize. I’ve been told that I can be overzealous, and well, perhaps that’s true. Though it’s always been in the spirit of true magical inquiry, and I would never _harm_ anyone unnecessarily, especially such a rare--” He glanced up at her face, and whatever he saw there stoppered up his rambling speech. “--yes. Well, that is irrelevant, I suppose. I wish to apologize; I overstepped my bounds earlier, and I would never try to use your power without consulting with you.”

Sebastian’s expression was earnest, his eyes pleading, and Ciri found herself inclined to believe him--to a point. A very limited point. If Rennes and the other witchers hadn’t been here to rein him in, would Sebastian truly have concerned himself with her consent? Knowing mages as she did, Ciri was sure that Sebastian would have convinced himself that his cause was worthy, and the use of her power necessary, regardless of whether she wished to lend it.

“I accept your apology,” Ciri said finally, considering him. “Although somehow I doubt that’s the only reason you’re here.”

“Well, no,” Sebastian replied, brightening. “It’s taken me some time, given the sheer number of possibilities your power could unlock, but after much consideration, I was hoping you might consider an initial set of experiments. You have told us that you were raised by a witcher--if your power could benefit those here at Kaer Morhen, perhaps that would be of interest to you?”

It was an obvious bit of bait, but Ciri found herself tempted by it anyway. “Benefit them in what way?” she asked, keeping her expression carefully neutral.

“Oh, any number of ways! Many of which are--well, ah, I’m afraid I can’t speak of them, unfortunately. Not without authorization. But there are other, simpler pieces of research we could embark on,” Sebastian said, unrolling the scroll out on the table between them. Proposals, apparently, written out in columns, under headings such as ‘magical experiments toward overcoming the azeotropes of necrophage vitae’ and ‘potential methods of extending chilling duration of containers.’ But scrawled along the margins was an incomprehensible mismatch of garbled words and sketches. Except... Ciri recognized the cipher: probably the first one Yen had ever taught her, to conceal the notes Ciri jotted down when learning about the workings of magic. It’d been a while and she was rusty, but with a little work, she was fairly sure she could read most of the coded text.

Sebastian continued, twisting his fingers together. “Metallurgy, for example. The silver blades that our witchers carry have always been an issue--the alloy is difficult to create, and even more difficult to forge. The edges dull quickly, to the point that when in battle with an armored beast, a witcher is often forced to, well, effectively beat it to death. Or so I’m told. I’ve had ideas for an intriguing set of enchantments that I’ve wished to pursue for some time, that could enhance the efficacy of such blades. Or, if you wish--I am told you are somewhat familiar with some of the herbs we use? There are potions--most are far too lethal for human consumption, I’m afraid--but if we can use your power to imbue magic into their base components, I believe there could be any number of enhancements we could create together.”

Ciri tilted her head to read, trying not to let her gaze linger too long on the encrypted sections. So far as she could make out, those weren’t the recipes of any witcher potions she recognized. There were, however, several coded mentions of bruxa components. Ciri kept her expression a careful mix of disinterest and wariness. “I’ve never heard of a mage using a human Source before. Thought they just captured them, took them away. Locked them up.” Because if it were truly so easy, Yen surely would have reached for Ciri’s power in her desperation, rather than burning every last mote of her own life energy to try to save Geralt.

Sebastian rubbed the back of his neck. “Err, well, that’s a very common misconception. The Brotherhood only takes them to Aretuza for training, naturally. If a Source doesn’t become a mage, and learn to control and channel their power, the magic usually… breaks loose, as it were. It causes unpredictable effects: talking in tongues, wildmagic curses, twisted prophecy. It’s rare for a Source to live as long as you have without training although perhaps such mental exercises as a witcher might have taught--err, in any case. You--you are correct to suppose that it is difficult to use a human Source for--I mean, humans aren’t like Djinn. The power’s not easily accessible, and getting a steady flow from someone else would involve--except in your case, I believe. You see these notations right here--”

Ciri let him prattle on. She had undergone some training: with Yen and Nenneke, and even more with Avallac’h, learning to reliably link the space-and-time affinity of the Elder Blood to her own internal pool of magical energy. But she’d learned very little about how to draw power from other places--only the bit that Yennefer had been able to teach her in their short time together--and she certainly didn’t know anything about doing the reverse: lending her power to a mage. Sebastian’s long-winded explanations, however, gave her more time to puzzle through the passages that she was really interested in. “So you think that improving these alloys would require… blood? Exactly how much are we talking about?” Ciri asked, to keep him going.

“Only enough to serve as a focus,” Sebastian assured her, taking off on another long-winded explanation of sympathetic magical channels. From the coded notations in front of her, however, Ciri was pretty sure he was planning to use anything she gave him to enhance the mutagens as well. Whether that boded well or ill for either Ciri or the School of the Wolf, however, Ciri couldn’t say. It would certainly tamper with the future. Emhyr’s predilection for keeping the empire’s mages on an extremely tight leash was starting to make even more sense.

“I can see how useful it would be, to equip everyone with better swords. If it would help save lives ….” said Ciri slowly, worrying at her lip, as if unable to decide. Even after a decade in court, she still wasn’t a natural actor, but Sebastian wasn’t watching her closely enough to be all that discerning. “I … just don’t know. I need to think about it. May I keep this?” she said, remembering at the last minute to ask rather than demand. She hoped that none of the witchers were close enough to overhear. Somehow she thought they would be harder to fool than Sebastian. “I want to make sure I understand what it is you need from me.”

Sebastian hesitated, fingers tightening possessively at the edge of the vellum. Ciri was careful not to let her gaze linger on the coded sections, instead glancing innocently between paper and mage. “Of--of course,” he said after a moment, obviously desperate enough for her approval that he was willing to take the chance. “And if you need any other information, or assurances, I would be more than happy to …”

“Thank you,” Ciri said, granting him a smile as he rolled up the vellum and handed it to her. “Everyone here has been very kind to me; I would like to repay that if I can. And I will certainly make sure to come to you with any questions.” She wasn’t sure yet what she could do with the information she now held. But knowledge was power … and if these notes about the witcher mutagens gave her some way to help Geralt, or any of the others, then she wasn’t about to let that pass.

 

*********

 

“Here, let me help you with that,” Ciri said hastily, hurrying forward to take some wood from the top of a teetering armful before it slipped from a trainee’s bundle. Even with one arm hampered by her crutch, she could at least take the loose ones for herself, and help tighten the straps on the rest. The trainee--no more than seventeen, if she was any judge--blinked at her.

“Uh, there’s no need. I mean--I’m strong enough to carry it,” he said, shifting his load and snatching at a piece as it began to fall. He had the dark hair and pale skin typical of Kaedweni northerners, a complexion that did nothing to help him hide his embarrassed interest. Or the assortment of bruises and rapidly-healing cuts he’d collected over the course of the morning’s training, for that matter.

“Well of course,” Ciri said easily, salving his pride. “But I like to be useful. Is this going to the kitchens?” She fell into step alongside him. “I don’t think we’ve officially met--I’m Falka.” She gave him a smile. “Though you probably already know that.”

“Yes, William said you were--er, yes. I know. I, uh, I’m Rolfe,” he stammered in reply, resolutely not looking at her as his ears turned red. “And no, this needs to go to the forge.” He headed towards the main courtyard, and Ciri followed. No new snow had fallen overnight, thankfully, so her footing was still relatively even, with only a few slick patches of ice to watch out for. As usual, there were several groups of trainees--ranging in age from unenhanced young boys to golden-eyed teenagers--drilling in the courtyard. Their instructors were merciless, and Ciri had to wince as she saw one of the older trainees stumble, gasping for air, only to have the two adult witchers he was sparring with use the opening to land brutal blows. Intellectually, she knew it was likely no worse than what other, more ordinary apprentices often suffered, and necessary to prepare them for the rigors of the Path, but …. “They certainly work all of you hard, don’t they?” she remarked, giving Rolfe an understanding look.

The young witcher hesitated, adjusting his load. “I suppose?” he said uncertainly, obviously not used to sympathy. “Don’t have much to compare it to.” He glanced sidelong at her. “Those who get their swords in the spring have to train the hardest. Grandmaster Marcin says the Path doesn’t forgive mistakes, and so neither can they.”

“I can imagine,” said Ciri, getting herself turned around, if a bit awkwardly between the burden of the firewood and the crutch. The support was almost more hindrance than assistance now, although it still saved her from time to time when her balance faltered. “I’m sure there’s a lot to prepare for. Still, it can’t be all thigh-deep mud and monsters, right? I’m surprised you don’t get more time to rest up.”

Rolfe shrugged, unconcerned. “Going to have to deal with a lot more than this on the Path, everyone says. Witchers have to become strong enough to fight through anything. You heard the story Varin told last night?”

Ciri winced. If she never heard another story involving both open gut wounds and Zerrikanian sand burrowers again, she’d die a happy… empress? Still, she wasn’t really clear on how the brutal training she had observed, which included trainees being pushed until they literally collapsed from exhaustion--and for a witcher, that took some doing--equated to novice witchers becoming less likely to make catastrophic errors of judgment. Wisely, she chose not to say as much to Rolfe. A young man’s pride was a prickly thing at the best of times. Instead she asked, “So will you be heading out on the Path soon?”

A gleam lit Rolfe’s eyes. “Soon--Master Badrick says I’m the best with signs out of all the novices. If I train hard enough, I may get my swords this spring.”

Ciri put on her best ‘very impressed’ face. “That’s pretty amazing,” she said. She asked a few more questions as they walked, subtly encouraging Rolfe to brag a little, not bothering to conceal her interest in his answers. “How many of you are there, the ones who’ve passed the trials?” Rolfe gave her a dubious look, and she added. “It’s all right. Thomas--the witcher who raised me--he told me about them. ”

“Uh, he did? I-- I mean, just eleven, right now.” Rolfe ducked his head, clearly flustered.

“Just eleven … counting the ones who ride out in the spring?” Ciri prompted gently, seeing how far she could push it.

“Err. Well, Matthias is the oldest, so he’ll definitely be going out on the Path,” said Rolfe, shifting his burden unsteadily as they walked. “Maybe one or two more, if the masters think we’re ready. But there will be a couple new novices to replace us, so.”

“So even in the summer, there will still be quite a few people left,” Ciri observed, giving him an absent smile as she scrambled to work the numbers in her head. She hadn’t wasted the time she’d spent watching the boys train. There was a group of seven, including Geralt and Eskel, for whom it seemed like the pace of practice was ramping up. Of all the young boys, they were being pushed the hardest--not only had they started wearing blindfolds on the wall, but their group was the first out on the practice grounds or the killer trail each morning, and the last to come in at night.

Given the boys’ announcement, that first night in Kaer Morhen, it was obvious they were the next group being readied for the trials. If Rolfe was correct, then out of the seven--only one or two were expected to survive? She already knew Geralt and Eskel would live, which meant that Klimek, Eric, all the others--perhaps she’d miscounted, miscalculated.

“Oh, some. Just us, and the little ones, and the masters who stay that year to train them,” Rolfe said. “And Master Sebastian and some of the others who take care of the keep, of course--the ones that don’t head downriver to farm.” They rounded a corner, the forge coming into view--but there were several groups of sparring witchers and drilling trainees in the upper courtyard as well, which meant they had to pick their way along the wall to get to it. “Everyone else heads out, back to the Path.”

A cold shiver went down Ciri’s spine. Summer meant a castle full of children, novitiate trainees, and untrained staff … as well as its most valuable, most knowledgeable elder witchers. That had to be when the attack had happened; when Kaer Morhen’s witcher population and its defenses were at their lowest. If she wanted to wipe out a school, that would be the opportunity she’d choose: when doing so would exterminate both the elders and a decade’s worth of future witchers all in a single blow. The remaining witchers would be scattered, disorganized--Kaer Morhen was isolated enough that those on the Path probably wouldn’t even hear of the attack. Wouldn’t know what had happened until they rode down from the pass, months later, and saw the broken walls, the rotting remains … her hands clenched into the rough surface of the wood she carried, fingertips turning white.

Rolfe shot her an uneasy glance, picking up on her sudden tension. “... that doesn’t mean they’re going to throw you out when spring comes,” he said tentatively. “If--if you wanted to stay, I mean. You’re a--well, you’re not a witcher, so no one expects you to go on the Path. Not that you aren’t--uh--that is …” He flushed and looked away.

Ciri shook her head, taking her anger and locking it away with hard-won control. An empress’ fury was a dangerous thing, both to others and to herself, and Emhyr had taught her to use it only sparingly. Now was not the time to think of future evils; especially ones she couldn’t prevent. “Not to worry,” she said. “Got a bit distracted, is all. Besides, there won’t be any need for me to impose on the school after the passes open; my injuries will be healed long before then.” She gave Rolfe a conspiratorial smile. “I’m sure Rennes will be more than happy to be rid of me.”

“The Headmaster is a cautious man,” Rolfe said loyally, obviously a bit relieved at the change in subject. “Everything he does is to preserve the School of the Wolf. Um--or so the other masters say.” He paused, glancing around, then lowered his voice to confide, “Master Rennes can’t go on the Path anymore, you see, because of his arm. Not alone, anyway. So he mostly stays here, and keeps the school in order. Farthest he goes is out to deal with the supply caravans, or to handle disputes with neighboring villages and barons, a couple of times. Grandmaster Frederic says it makes him cranky; that witchers aren’t meant to stay in one place.”

“Hard to silence the Path’s call, I suppose,” Ciri said, a touch of amusement in her voice as she blew out a soft breath. She wasn’t sure if she would call the humorless and eternally-suspicious Rennes ‘cranky’, but she was willing to allow that Frederic might have a different perspective on the matter. It did make her wonder what Rennes might have been like, before the injury that had effectively ended his career as an active witcher. “Is he the only witcher who stays at Kaer Morhen year round?”

“Well, most of the master witchers trade off on training duties,” Rolfe said, after thinking for a moment. “So most of them will spend a year here, then a few years on the Path. The grandmasters--the senior witchers, the ones who are the best instructors--they stay longer, maybe two or three years. But they still go out in between. Grandmaster Vesemir, for instance--he’ll probably stay for a couple of summers, now that he’s back.” He glanced up at the high walls of the keep. “Grandmaster Dean doesn’t leave much, and I’ve only seen Grandmaster Varric go on the Path maybe twice in the last ten years. But he’s the school quartermaster, and whenever he gets back, he and the headmaster always get into a big fight about all the things that weren’t taken care of while he was gone.” Rolfe made a face. “And then we spend six months fixing and cleaning _everything_.”

Ciri laughed. Apparently Lambert’s eternal bitching of ‘I’m a witcher, damn it, I kill things, I don’t patch walls and fix stairs’, was a long-standing tradition in Kaer Morhen. “I can see why you don’t want him out on the Path too often, if that’s the case,” she remarked. “I--” They were forced to pause at the stretch of courtyard between the stables and the main gate, as two men loaded down with furs maneuvered around the duelists, and the notice board caught her eye. Smaller than those found in villages, it seemed to serve much the same purpose. On it were handwritten notices of lost items, offers to trade Gwent cards or other bits of loot, the occasional line of doggerel-- _’Maximilian of Oxenfurt/Rides his mule back to front/The whores don’t complain/But kiss his ass all the same’_ and _‘there once was a harlot from Rue, who filled her cunt up with glue...’_ \--but unlike elsewhere, no contracts. Until now. Ciri stopped short as she saw the newest notice, freshly written and tacked boldly into the center of the board.

_‘LET IT BE KNOWN_

_That due to his various and many crimes against decency, the natural order, and good taste, the Witcher Almeric must no longer be allowed to torment his brethren with devilish enchanted undergarments. In order to ensure this, a reward in coin awaits the brave man who can relieve him of said braies, and send the accursed garment to a fiery demise. The witcher who can provide evidence of this deed shall be held in esteem by his brothers, his name hallowed forever._

_Edik of Breton_

_[Addendum] Almeric is a vile seducer of upright witcherfolk--do not fall prey to his wiles!’_

A giggle escaped before she could control it. “A contract on braies? Seriously?”

Rolfe followed her gaze to the paper, then grinned. For a moment, he looked every bit the boy he was. “Master Edik always likes to cause trouble. I think he likes to harass Master Almeric, too. Headmaster Rennes calls him a pain in the ass. But the winter’s never boring when he’s around.”

“I’ll bet,” Ciri said emphatically, remembering her own encounter, cheeks pinking a bit. Thankfully, it was cold enough that it wasn’t obvious. “Is he the only one who does things like this?”

Rolfe shook his head. “No, this sort of stuff happens all the time, especially during the winter. Pranks, arm-wrestling and er--other things.” He glanced at her, then looked away again, blushing fiercely, adding in a rush, “Sometimes real fights too. But the senior witchers take care of those real quick. Witchers are meant to kill monsters, not each other.” The statement had a rote quality to it, as if it were something Rolfe had heard countless times.

“Hunh.” Ciri couldn’t help but wonder about that rule. Especially since she knew Geralt had gone toe to toe with other witchers more than once. He didn’t like to speak of it, but Lambert had let a few things slip. “Does that include witchers from other schools?”

“I guess?” Rolfe said after a moment’s pause. “There aren’t that many this far north, though. Other than a few Bears, it’s mostly just the School of the Wolf.”

“I seem to remember--the school of the Cat is near Novigrad, though, right?” The forge’s woodpile now before them, Ciri gratefully deposited her burden, then turned to help with Rolfe’s. Wiry as he was, he’d still been carrying a solid hundredweight in small logs.

“They are,” Rolfe said, loosening the heavy straps of woven fabric that held his pile together. He thought a bit, tossing wood onto the stacked pile. “I know they have some interesting techniques, but I don’t remember a Cat ever joining us for the winter, so--”

“Rolfe!” The shout rang across the courtyard. Heads snapped up, and both Rolfe and Ciri turned to see Marcin, fists on his hips, scarred face twisted into a ferocious scowl. “Stop jawing around, get that done, and get over to the javelins!”

“Yes sir!” Rolfe called back, tossing the heavy lengths of wood with sudden haste. Ciri did her best to help, but the enhanced teen was apparently not inclined to risk Marcin’s wrath, and moved with a speed she couldn’t hope to match. Within moments the job was done, Rolfe dusting his hands off and trotting off towards the far side of the courtyard, where targets had been set up. Ciri sighed--so much for her information source--and began to turn away, only to have Marcin transfer his frown to her.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Ciri paused. “Somewhere … out of the way?”

Marcin gave her a considering look. “Get over to the targets. You claim to be trained by a witcher--let’s see what you can do.”

Ciri bridled at his peremptory tone, but stifled the urge to tell him off. Without Frederic or another grandmaster around to back her up, it was unlikely to go over well. Besides, it wasn’t as if she had anything better to do. “All right,” she said slowly. Curious to see what he had in mind, she limped her way across to the makeshift range. The targets were heavy straw bales, covered in canvas with rudely painted circles in the center. Across from them was a mixed group of golden-eyed trainees, ranging in age from Rolfe and a few other older novices, to baby-faced teenagers just barely past their Trials. As Ciri approached, the red-headed novice who had headed the ‘fishing’ expedition a few days past--Matthias--took a running step and threw. The javelin sliced through the air, punching clean through the target, the sharpened point exploding out the back in a cloud of straw and shredded canvas. Ciri gave a low whistle of admiration. “I certainly hope you don’t expect me to do that,” she told Marcin. Even without a broken leg, there was no way she could match that kind of supernatural strength.

Marcin’s reply was to turn, pick up a javelin, and hold it out to her. “Show me your grip,” he ordered.

Ciri awkwardly took hold of the heavy spear, tipped in sharpened metal on one end. The witchers of her time had largely abandoned javelins as a hunting weapon, though she wasn’t sure whether that had been due to the invention of crossbows or just personal preference. In any case, Vesemir and Geralt had never spent much time training her in their use, and if Marcin’s deepening scowl was anything to go by, it showed. “What are you doing? It’s not a halberd, woman.”

“Holding it?” Ciri said, holding on to the fraying edges of her patience. “Look, Thomas never--”

“Not every monster is going to stay on the ground, or come within reach of a sword,” Marcin said, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. With the scars that twisted his face, the expression was more than a little menacing, and Ciri had to fight the urge to take a step back. “You claim to have hunted monsters, but you’ve never used a javelin? Tell me, _Falka_ , how do you take care of such beasts? Or did they just obediently line up for you and wait to be beheaded?”

The last thread holding Ciri’s temper snapped. Tired of the mockery, she let go of the javelin, letting it fall. Turning, she limped her way over to a nearby table that bore an assortment of weaponry: bows, arrows, a few other kinds of spears, and most importantly--knives. Grabbing three, she hefted them once, gauging the weight and balance; then spun and flung them at the nearest clear target. Trainees leaped backwards, out of the way, though they need not have worried; her knives flew true, sinking deep into the painted canvas circle in rapid succession, one after the next.

Ignoring the ache in her leg--her little performance had put more weight on it than was perhaps wise--Ciri gave Marcin a glare. “You don’t have to spear a griffin from fifty yards away if you can harass it enough to make it come to you instead,” she snapped. “Or ambush it in its nest, for that matter. I might not be as strong as a witcher, but that doesn’t mean I can’t still be smarter than the beasts I hunt.”

“Is that so.” Marcin didn’t appear to be overly impressed by her display of skill--but then, she had yet to see him look impressed by anything. “You know how to handle a bow? Yes? Good--grab one. Let’s see what else you can do.”


	10. Chapter 10

A few mornings later, Ciri nearly walked out the door without her crutch.

Breath catching, Ciri let herself sink back down onto the edge of her cot, bandaged leg splayed forward. It had been… she had to think. Tonight would make it eleven days since the night she’d landed in this time.

Normal humans didn’t heal broken bones in less than two weeks. Rennes and the other senior witchers were going to notice, if they hadn’t already.

It didn’t help that even she couldn’t explain why she healed so fast. Was it the mutagenic herbs she’d been given at Kaer Morhen, before Triss had arrived and put a stop to it? The Elder Blood? The raw magical power of a Source? The force of destiny itself? There was no way to confess any of it to the witchers around her without exposing who and what she truly was. But leaving Gregor, Frederic, and all the others behind without so much as a word of explanation or apology… it didn’t sit right.

Guilt and frustration roiled, knotting in her gut. It was selfish, she knew, to abandon her time and her people for this. She’d risked so much, given up so much, all to give her people a fighting chance. But now… now she wanted to keep this. Just this: laughing and hunting and mucking out stables, spending another winter safe and warm within Kaer Morhen’s walls, far from imperial politics or assassinations; researching bits of long-lost lore; testing her skills against the witchers around her.

“Just a few more days,” Ciri breathed, as if saying it aloud would seal a bargain with fate. “A week more, and then I’ll go back.” She... still needed time for more research, to ensure she didn’t under- or overshoot her own era when she made the attempt. Right? Yet, she could almost hear Emhyr’s voice, dark and unyielding. _If you wait for circumstance to force your hand, Cirilla, you will find it leads to outcomes that are out of your control._

“A temporal paradox doesn’t have much in common with a misbehaving merchants’ guild, father,” she muttered, pushing herself upright. Burying her anxiety, she headed for the door to her room, crutch in hand. The leg only ached a little now, mostly when she put her full weight on it. For a moment Ciri considered miming a limp, then discarded the notion. The witchers would see through such artifice, and then she’d have more questions to answer.

As a child, she’d once asked Cöen about his scars. He’d told Ciri that you might not be able to avoid mentioning the wyvern in the outhouse, but if you acted as if such a state of affairs was completely normal, other people would quit talking about it for you. Ciri had turned that over for a day and then asked if he was supposed to be the wyvern or the outhouse. She still wasn’t sure -- but perhaps there was some wisdom there, regardless.

 

The main hall was only a short distance away, and she made sure to smile and nod in greeting to the castle staff bustling about. The morning meal was in full swing. Breakfast in Kaer Morhen was less regimented than the evening meal, and the number of people in the hall seemed to vary in shifts. First up were always the trainees, gulping down bread and porridge in the dark predawn hours before being chivvied outside to train, or scattering to do chores. Then the youngest novices arrived, and the first wave of early risers among the adult witchers. Finally, any remaining witchers straggled in, arriving as early or as late as their own duties--or personal inclination--dictated. Spotting a table with Aubry, Simon, and a third witcher she didn’t recognize, she headed towards it.

“Good morn--” she started, doing her best to show nothing but casual cheer. She might as well not have made the effort, for all the good it did her, because-- “Wait, what in creation is _that?_ ”

“This? Supposed to be a scarf,” the third witcher looked up with a placid kind of good humor, tugging another length of wool yarn from the ball on the table with a practiced motion. The knitting needles in his hands never slowed.

Simon grinned. “Oh really? And here I thought you were making Aubry a hat. Cover up that lumpy head of his, yanno.”

“Err,” Ciri blinked. “Not that, I mean the--”

“Thought I heard you asking Kaspar for a tea cozy, Simon,” Aubry said, swirling his smallbeer idly as he picked through the objects spread out across the table before him. He looked… better, remarkably so, after just a week of rest and food. Certainly better than when Vesemir had hauled him into Kaer Morhen. Still, he’d likely spend most of the winter just putting muscle back on his bones. “You know how you get when your tea ain’t cozy.”

“I’m wounded by your barbs, really I am,” said Simon with an air of long suffering patience, and shoveled another spoonful of porridge into his mouth.

“Think you could knit me a black magic doll, Kaspar?” Aubry asked, examining a tiny ivory box--one of the many strange items in front of him. “Effigy of Simon would be great. Gotta be some pins around here somewhere.”

“It’s a _scarf,_ ” Kaspar maintained stubbornly. “And none of you bastards are getting it, that’s for damn sure. No appreciation for fine craftsmanship.”

Ciri grinned. “Well, whether tea cozy or scarf, I’m sure it’ll be nice and snug. Truthfully though, I was referring to that.” She pointed at the … thing … that sat amid a pile of random bits and bobs on the tabletop. It looked as if all three witchers had decided to empty out their saddlebags: the tabletop was crowded with random spools of undyed thread, various scrap pieces of leather and fur, interesting shells, a beheaded and inexpertly-painted figurine of Melitele, worn axe heads, and some unwashed and empty vials, among other things. Sitting in the middle of it all, however, was a strange mechanical device in a battered square case. The device was vaguely tubular, with several flanges; more disturbingly, it was covered in strange, unearthly runes that matched no language she knew.

And yet, she’d seen something like this. Ciri was certain of it. But where?

“That?” Aubry set the ivory box aside and picked the object up. “Not sure. Dug it up in the remains of a village just outside of Nazair. Fleders had hit the village--by the time I got there, wasn’t anyone left alive to ask what it was. Thought it might be worth some coin to the right merchant or scholar.” With a shrug, he handed it over to Ciri for inspection.

“Nazair?” Kaspar said, glancing up in surprise. “You get lost, Aubry? What the fuck were you doing that far south?”

“Followed a caravan down,” Aubry replied easily. “They’d lost their witcher on the way north. They needed an escort to get back to their own country, and were desperate enough to offer a fat purse for a witcher rather than spend all their coin wintering over in Tretogor. Ended up going almost all the way to Nilfgaard on that one. Even met a couple other witchers from the Manticore school along the way. They have some interesting techniques.”

“Oh yeah? What kind?” Kaspar asked, obviously interested.

Ciri listened intently, even as she turned the device over in her hands. This wasn’t the first time she’d heard witchers talk about guarding caravans. She vaguely recalled one or two passages about the practice in historical texts of her time, but routine trade matters weren’t usually the kind of thing the bards wrote treatises about. Such work seemed to be a steady source of income for witchers of this era, however, and the idea that even a large, well-funded merchant caravan wouldn’t consider heading south without a witcher as part of their escort was … startling. Had things changed so much in only a hundred years? She desperately wanted to ask for more details, but it was apparent that such information was common knowledge now. Even a village herbalist would have been at least passingly familiar with the hazards of this era, and there simply was no way to ask the questions she wanted to ask without raising suspicion.

“Poison antidotes, for one. Lot of monsters that use poison down south. Manticores, obviously, but also archespores, giant centipedes, different types of arachasae. Even a mess of draconids, including some venom-spitters,” Aubry replied. He leaned back, fingers rubbing over a paler patch of scarred skin on his jawline--acid marks, Ciri realized. “Learned that the hard way. Was having a hard time shaking the effects, too. One of the Manticore witchers gave me a draught of their version of golden oriole; amazing stuff. Kicks like a mule, but it cleared out the poison from my system. I think it even healed up some older injuries while it was at it.”

Simon whistled. “Damn--I could’ve definitely used that a time or two. Any chance you found out how to brew it?”

Aubry shook his head. “No. Couldn’t offer anything worthwhile in trade, and they weren’t exactly going to give a Wolf brewing tips for free.”

“Why not?” Ciri asked, frowning. “It’s not like that sort of thing can be used against them. I would have thought they’d want to help out a fellow witcher.”

Aubry gave her a surprised look. “Every school has its secrets. Why would Manticore give up theirs, just so the Wolf can try to take their contracts?”

“Is that really a concern?” Ciri said. “It’s not like you’re merchants fighting over the best stall in a market, after all. Given how few of you there are, surely there’s enough work to go around?”

Aubry shrugged. “Perhaps. But some of it pays better. When you’re trying to keep yourself fed and provisioned, and tuck away enough to tithe to your school, that can make a big difference between a good year or a bad one on the Path.”

“Be easier if we could take the more political contracts,” Simon added, then glanced around. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’m not saying we should, right? Neutrality and all that. Just -- it’d be easier, is all.”

“Always hard to tell if the brigands some lord’s hiring you to track are actually another lord’s scouts. Safer to stick to monsters,” Kaspar said, reaching the end of his row. He neatened the line of stitches, and started perling back the other direction, needles clicking rhythmically. “Usually safer, anyway,” he added with an apologetic jerk of his head to Aubry.

“Getting harder to tell ‘em apart, seems like,” Aubry said grimly. The grievances had an air of familiarity about them, the conversation obviously a well-worn track. Ciri had heard the same from her witchers -- although not so much recently, given imperial distaste for lordlings who tried to involve witchers in the dirtier side of politics.

Ciri traced her fingers over the engraved runes of the strange device, thinking over what she knew, and what she could guess at. If the witchers of this time were counting on surviving by virtue of their unwillingness to take sides… history would prove them wrong, soon enough.

 _The insulation of allies and leverage,_ Emhyr had once said, of an old house that threw its full weight behind no one and prospered all the same. His tone had made it clear that he considered the former a poor cousin of the latter, but perhaps… well. There was no harm in thinking, was there? After all, it wasn’t as if suitable allies -- ones who would ask no favors against nearby fiefdoms, while being quick enough to assist in the event of a siege, would just fall into her lap, now was it?

“Err, anyway, sorry to go off on a tangent,” Simon said, noticing Ciri’s preoccupation.

“Not to worry,” Ciri said, reaching out to put the strange device back on the table. “Sounds like a really tough situation.” _In more ways than one._

“Keep it,” Aubry said, waving the apparatus away. Ciri stilled, holding the box uncertainly. “Doubt that thing is worth more than the copper in the backing, anyway. Actually, you could do me a favor, if you’re hale enough to snowshoe soon. Supposed to be a scholar wintering down in Tabrzeg. Rumor says he knows fifty languages; thought I’d ask if he knows that one.” Aubry nodded at the angular, long-thorned glyphs.

“What, not eager to go wade through a little more snow, Aubry?” Simon chortled, which earned him a thwack to the back of his head.

“Gonna need that black magic effigy sooner rather than later, Kaspar,” Aubry huffed.

“Oh for fuck’s sake -- it’s a ploughing scarf!”

Ciri laughed. “I wouldn’t mind at all getting out of the castle, but if I do, I’m probably going to have to steal that scarf,” she pointed out. “I didn’t exactly bring any winter gear with me.”

“Shouldn’t be too much of a problem. We don’t exactly have armor fitted for a woman, but we have furs and spare clothing enough,” Simon said easily. “If we ask nice, we may even get Agnes or one of the other castle-folk to tailor ‘em a little to fit.”

“Might have to put in some extra time peeling potatoes, though,” Kaspar put in.

“If it gets me proper winter gear, I’ll peel all the root vegetables they throw at me,” Ciri promised, smiling. Chores for clothing had to be one of the easier trade-offs she’d made in her life. “Kaer Morhen is big, but it’s not that big. It’d be nice to see what’s outside of it.”

“Well, the Grandmasters don’t seem to mind anymore, as long as someone’s keeping an eye on you,” Simon said thoughtfully, frowning down at her splinted leg. “By the time you’re healed up, the weather might be more cooperative, too.”

“I doubt we’d have to wait that long, honestly.” Carefully casual, Ciri patted her crutch. “Break wasn’t bad at all; I barely need this anymore. Another day or so and I’ll be good to walk without it.” Leaning on every bit of her imperial training, Ciri kept her tone light and matter-of-fact, her breathing steady. It helped that her statement was even true, provided one’s definition of ‘not bad’ was so expansive as to cover pretty much everything.

Aubry turned back toward her, frowning. “Already? Are you sure?” He exchanged glances with Kaspar. “You put weight on it too soon, and you could lame yourself permanently. And snowshoeing over the pass isn’t exactly an easy stroll.”

“Don’t worry, this isn’t the first broken bone I’ve dealt with,” Ciri said, waving away their concern. “And a little exercise will keep me from losing too much muscle tone over the winter.”

Aubry looked to Kaspar, as if to confirm that losing muscle during convalescence was actually a thing with humans. It wasn’t something witchers normally had to worry about. Kaspar gave an uncertain little shrug.

“We can make an overnight of it,” Simon offered. “Take it easy, there and back. Had stuff I needed to pick up, anyway.”

Given that the lowlands were a solid fifteen miles away through deep snow, Ciri hadn’t realized it was possible to make the trip in any shorter time than that. Tamping down a bolt of rueful jealousy, Ciri nodded. “Right -- winter gear it is. Care to head out… in three, four days?” And then at last she’d have some of those missing answers, more information about the world and Kaer Morhen’s place within it.

“Perfect,” Simon agreed. “I’ll put some packs together.”

*********

A day or two later found her in the stables. Witcher horses in this era, Ciri had learned, were sturdy, smallish beasts, more akin to mountain ponies than the lighter-boned Nilfgaardian stock she was used to--or, for that matter, Geralt’s succession of Roaches. Thankfully, this made them both less inclined to fits of temper and easier to handle. It also meant that they had grown thick, shaggy coats for the winter, which required more than a little currying to keep in decent riding trim.

Ciri stopped to pull yet another matted clump of hair from the currycomb, glancing over her shoulder at the new arrival. “Are you going out today?” she remarked, taking in the heavier leathers he wore, then stilled as she realized what Frederic was carrying. A sword--her sword, Zirael, the lines of hilt and scabbard as familiar to her as the lines of her own hand. Her gaze snapped from it to Frederic’s face, a sudden hope rising.

Frederic hefted it casually, then held it out to her. “Sebastian says your leg is healed enough to spar, and I’m curious to see what Thomas taught you. What do you say--care to show these young bucks a thing or two?” he said, a hint of a smile curling the corners of his mouth.

Ciri set the brush aside and reached for her blade, trying not to let her eagerness show. The sword, when she slid a few inches free of the scabbard, had been cleaned, oiled, and expertly sharpened--not that the heavily enchanted weapon required much attention. “Of course. Who will I be sparring with?” Ciri asked, casing Zirael again and slinging the scabbard over her back. The weight settled comfortingly. “You?”

Frederic shook his head, and waved her towards the courtyard. “Oh, I’m not bad with a blade, but there’s others with better eyes for this sort of thing. Vesemir’s agreed to work with you.” Despite her best efforts, Ciri hesitated, her footsteps slowing, and Frederic glanced over, brows knitting in concern. “Unless you would prefer someone else?”

“No, no,” she said hastily. “I’ve seen Vesemir spar; he’s very good.”

“He is,” Frederic agreed. “In truth, he’s been our fencing-master now for almost a century. There might be better fighters in Kaer Morhen, but none better with a sword. He’ll make sure no one gets hurt.” In case her skills weren’t up to handling an opponent as fast and powerful as a witcher, Ciri knew he meant, even if he had chosen not to say so. Irritated at Frederic’s assumptions, she suddenly found herself looking forward to the bout for an entirely new reason. Vesemir and Geralt had trained her well, and the brutal life she’d led afterwards had only honed her skills. Perhaps it was time to prove that the Lion Cub of Cintra had fangs of her own.

Rather than the main courtyard and its crowd of drilling trainees, Frederic led the way to a smaller yard located to the side of one of the towers. Other than a few barrels of supplies stacked against the wall, the space was clear of obstacles. There were a few witchers about, ostensibly engaged in mending bits of gear. Somehow Ciri doubted their presence was merely coincidence. Rennes’ certainly wasn’t; he stood on the far side of the yard, thumb hooked in his belt, looking sour. Next to him, the armsmaster Tjold crouched in a patch of sunshine, back against the wall. Both of them watched her.

Her audience was soon forgotten, however. Vesemir was waiting for her in the middle of the courtyard, the hilts of his swords visible over one shoulder. A century younger, his armor different--but everything else was exactly the same as she remembered.

“Master Vesemir,” Ciri said, swallowing past the lump in her throat and giving the older man a respectful nod. “Where would you like to begin?”

“Gregor tells me you are familiar with at least the basics of the Wolf style,” Vesemir said, golden eyes narrowed as he inspected Ciri: watching how she moved, her grip on Zirael’s hilt. “Let’s start out with some drills, warm up a bit first.”

“Sounds good,” Ciri said, resolutely ignoring how the hair on the back of her neck prickled under the other witchers’ scrutiny. “First form?”

Vesemir nodded, stepping back to a safe distance, facing her. Ciri began the drill, moving through basic strikes and parries, as Vesemir called out individual moves. “Overhand cut, reverse! Second form, now. Pivot, sweep ... disengage and riposte!”

It didn’t take long for her muscles to warm; Ciri had kept in fighting trim as much as her duties had allowed, and the exertion felt good, felt _right_. The feel of Zirael’s hilt was like a missing puzzle-piece slotting into place, the blade an extension of her arm as she struck, pivoted, advanced and fell back. Vesemir soon moved from basic drills to more advanced maneuvers, giving her no respite, inexorable and relentless. Ciri leaped, spun, lunged low and rolled, kicking up dust as she attacked and retreated from invisible foes on all sides, ignoring the dull ache of her healing leg, sweat rolling down her sides and between her breasts.

“Hold,” Vesemir called out after almost twenty minutes of drilling.

Ciri straightened, smearing damp strands of hair away from her face with the back of one wrist, smiling. Thankfully years of ingrained training had held; her breathing was deep and even, well-controlled, and the short workout had been a good way to shake off the dust from her skills and loosen up joints stiff from lack of exercise. “Well?” she asked.

Vesemir’s expression was inscrutable as he studied her. “You know the basics, that’s clear. Now let’s see how you put them together.” He stepped forward, drawing his sword--live steel, and a good blade, not a blunt training bar. Riskier, and far more interesting. Ciri shifted her weight forward, eager, focus sharpening with adrenaline.

They faced off, sword tips rising to guard position. They started slow, maneuvering around each other, exchanging a few attacks and parries. Vesemir was taking her measure, Ciri knew; learning her openings, her style, trying to draw out weaknesses. Ciri did have a bit of an unfair advantage; she knew Vesemir’s fighting style almost as well as Geralt’s or her own, enough to make good predictions about how he would move. That knowledge wouldn’t help her much had their fight been real; Vesemir had centuries of experience with a blade, and she was no match for a witcher’s inhuman speed and strength without using her own power. Still, she would do her best to make a good showing, and not disgrace her teachers in the process.

Then Vesemir suddenly _moved_ , blade slicing upward at full speed. Caught by surprise, instinct took over; Ciri caught it on the flat of her own, redirecting the blow, pivoting to launch her own attack. Another flurry of strikes, and then Vesemir’s riposte was under her guard, tangling their blades and twisting Zirael out of her hand. It clattered to the cobblestones, and Ciri huffed in annoyance. “Damn. I’d hoped to last a little longer than that,” she said ruefully. “Again?”

For his part, Vesemir hadn’t completely lowered his guard--but there was something new in his gaze. He looked her over, assessing her readiness, then nodded. “Again,” he agreed, stepping back so she could reclaim her blade.

The second bout lasted longer, Ciri throwing herself into the fight with fresh enthusiasm . Despite her best efforts, Ciri could tell that Vesemir was toying with her; drawing her out, forcing her to use everything in her repertoire just to match him. Time and time again she found herself dodging or parrying a sword point a bare finger’s width or less from her flesh. It was frustrating, exhausting … but also exhilarating.

Vesemir drove her back, hammering again and again at an opening left by a too-low elbow, letting her only just escape... until understanding dawned and she adjusted her guard. Time and again, he taught by maneuvering Ciri into exactly the right position to realize a mistake... and then tested her knowledge with relentlessly varied attacks. And each time she got it right, Vesemir’s nod of approval shot a bolt of pure triumph right up Ciri’s spine. But there was no time to enjoy the elation as a new flurry of blows guided her to her next weak point, and sent her scrambling to parry in time.

She’d… she’d taken this for granted, Ciri realized. Oh, she’d had good sparring opponents, the best the empire could offer, versed in a multitude of styles and techniques. But this … this was far more precious an opportunity than she’d ever realized. She’d never been this close of a match to Vesemir, never had the experience and physical ability to benefit so much from his expertise. Not until the Wild Hunt, and then--

But here and now--this Vesemir was alive, and strong, and making her work harder than ever just to keep up with him. She grinned at him, teeth bared in fierce joy even as their blades tangled once more and she did her best to flatten his instep.

The ringing of metal on metal, the burn of the chill air in her lungs and the icy trickle of sweat down her temples … it was perfect, a moment out of time, and they danced together, lunge and parry, turn and strike. The rest of the world didn’t exist, only her and Vesemir and two lengths of razored steel singing in the air. Twice, she won a grunted ‘good’ from Vesemir as their blades clashed; the rare praise fuelled her. And then at last, arms heavy, she finally--finally!--saw an opening. She went for it, extending into a perfect lunge, Zirael’s point diving arrow-straight for that gap--

\--Vesemir twisted, she overextended, and the pommel of his sword struck the cluster of nerves on the top of her forearm with precise and stunning force. Her hand convulsed, and Ciri cursed as Zirael clattered loose once more from suddenly numb fingers. “Damnation!” She cradled her arm, as her breath rasped in her throat. Vesemir didn’t finish the stroke, but stepped back, giving her space; he wasn’t even breathing hard, the bastard.

“Throwing away your guard to take advantage of an obvious opening,” Vesemir remarked. “Not the smartest choice.”

Ciri made a face. “I know,” she said ruefully. In hindsight, it was a fairly obvious trap; but the chance to _finally_ best Vesemir in a match was just too tempting to pass up. At least Emhyr hadn’t been here to see her fall for it. “Thomas would have smacked me good for leaving myself open like that.” She picked up her sword and straightened, flexing tingling fingers as the pain faded.

“Mm. Your Thomas was a student of mine, wasn’t he?” The question was more rhetorical than not, Vesmir’s gaze raptor-keen. “The way you present your forward foot, and that backhanded strike; both are additions I’ve made to the Wolf style.”

“He never told me who his teachers were, but you would certainly know better than I,” Ciri said carefully. Given how long Vesemir had been an instructor at Kaer Morhen, it seemed unlikely such an admission would catch her out in a lie. “He taught me all that he could in the short time we had together.”

“He did a good job in adapting the Wolf style to your limitations,” Vesemir said thoughtfully. “He emphasized techniques that required skill and creativity over strength. And he taught you to end fights quickly, preserving stamina. The problem therein is defense.” He frowned, in that way he did when he was working through a puzzle. “You’re leaving yourself too open.”

Ciri fought the urge to bristle over the criticism. Try as she might, as empress she simply did not have hours each day to devote to honing her fighting skills. It had taken some time, but Emhyr had eventually drilled into her head that a monarch’s life--not to mention the prosperity of an empire that spanned a continent--relied on more subtle skills. The ability to maneuver an ally, or deceive an enemy; the ability to tell a lie and make it ring true, to foresee the machinations of the factions arranged around her, and use them to her purposes … all necessary, if infinitely more frustrating than the clean, life-or-death choices involved in meeting an enemy across the length of your blade. No wonder Geralt, Eskel, and Lambert all avoided court like the plague.

And perhaps she _had_ gotten sloppy, too used to relying on her power to avoid any attack that might penetrate her guard. It was a hard thing to admit, but she had learned too much from Emhyr and Vesemir to ignore any potential weaknesses. Ciri nodded. “All right. What should I work on?”

Vesemir tilted his head, and Ciri caught the faintest hint of surprise underneath his teacher’s mask. Then he nodded, as if coming to a decision. “We work on your weak side, and put you up against multiple opponents to push endurance.” He turned, calling out to the witchers that ringed the courtyard--and was it her imagination, or were there more of them now than when they had started? “Ranulf! Grab your swords and get off your arse!”

Ranulf turned out to be a lanky witcher perched on a barrel on the far side of the yard. He glanced up at Vesemir’s shout, then shrugged and set aside the flap of leather he’d been working on. Shrugging into his sword harness, he ambled over, expression set in carefully neutral lines. “What are we doing?” he asked Vesemir, ignoring Ciri entirely.

“You and I will be on the attack, Falka on defense. See if we can’t plug some of those holes in her guard.” Vesemir glanced over at Ciri. “Think you can handle two foes at the same time?”

Ciri grinned, already calculating the many ways to tangle one opposing swordsman with another. “Try me.”


	11. Chapter 11

The day of their expedition to Tabrzeg was crisp and cold; good travelling weather, even if it made pulling herself out of warm blankets in the gray predawn light an exercise in willpower. Simon had taken the lead on supplies, as promised, and individual packs had been laid out along with an empty sledge. Wrapping herself in layers of leather and fur, Ciri snugged the ties that held her pack closed, double-checking on the snowshoes strapped to the back of it. They likely wouldn’t be needed until they got higher into the mountains, as the trails around Kaer Morhen had been kept reasonably clear by the comings and goings of the keep’s inhabitants.

“Ready?” Simon asked. Bundled up to his ears in reinforced leathers and a heavy hooded fur cloak, his swords strapped over it all, he looked ready for both bear and blizzard. “Spikes strapped down tight? Don’t want to lose ‘em in a fight.”

“I’ve got them--ah, there.” Ciri straightened up, stamping to make sure the ice spikes were properly belted to her boots. Her breath plumed the blue predawn air, stirring the fur that lined her hood. “I’ll admit,” she added, as Simon turned to his own footwear, “I’m surprised there’s so much interest in heading to town.” Their little expedition had attracted more attention than she’d realized; no fewer than four additional witchers were now hoisting up packs and doing final checks on their gear. Given that only five witchers and a few sorceresses had fought the entire Wild Hunt to a near-standstill, this little expeditionary force was effectively a small army.

“Eh, well,” Simon shrugged, first turning up his parka hood and then folding it back down. His eyelashes were already frosted with a fine rind of ice. “Tjold wanted ‘volunteers’ to sharpen and oil the entire armory, so….”

Ciri grinned. “So a tactical retreat was in order?”

“Something like that,” Simon said, returning the smile with a crooked one of his own. “Plus you aren’t the only one who gets stir-crazy after a while. Tabrzeg isn’t much to look at, but at least it has some different faces and a chance at female company, for those inclined to it. Right, Ondrej?’

Ondrej’s only reply was a curt nod. Next to the affable Simon, he was a far more typical example of a witcher, aloof and laconic, and had kept his distance since Ciri’s arrival. The allure of chatting up a new friend had obviously not been enough to outweigh his suspicions.

Izak stroked the frost from his extravagant mustache. “That girl of yours still do those fire treatments, Simon?”

Simon rubbed at the back of his head. “Err, well. I didn’t exactly stop to find out, last time. I mean, I imagine she does, but--”

“Fire treatments?” Ciri asked.

“Feels great on sore joints,” Simon hurried to explain. “They rub this paste in, see, which makes that spot feel all tingly.”

“Sounds nice,” Ciri commented, the steel spikes on her boots clicking as she went over to select a pair of basket-tipped poles -- always useful for feeling your way through a snow bank or over frozen fords.

“And then they put a towel over it, pour on some good strong liquor, and light the towel on fire.”

“Wait, what?”

“So you had a falling out, I take it?” Izak said, picking up the leadline of the sledge.

“Err, well. I’m sure she’s forgiven me by now. I mean, it’s just business, right, so I’m sure she’ll--”

“Wait.” Ciri struggled to wrap her mind around that, as she slung the pack on to her back. “You want to go to Simon’s ex-girlfriend. And let her set you on fire.”

“She puts it out after a bit,” Simon protested, as if that made things any better. “Wraps it in another towel. Feels great, I swear.”

“Did someone say fire treatment?”

“I … find that hard to believe,” Ciri said, still a bit boggled by the idea of paying someone to set you _on fire_. On purpose. “Doesn’t it hurt?”

“Enh, not so much. Trust me, it’ll sound like a good idea to you too, by the time we get there,” said Marrock, looking to the thin blush of first dawn, backlighting the snowy peaks in pink and peach. “It’ll bake the cold out of your bones, that’s for sure.”

“All right, enough chatter. Sooner we start, the sooner we’ll get there,” Frederic said, swinging his pack up over his shoulders with effortless ease. All of the packs, Ciri had noticed, had straps fastened with quick-release knots. One jerk at the leather in the right place, and the pack would drop. It wasn’t as secure--they ran the risk of losing their supplies should an accident happen--but given that all the members of their party carried their swords across their backs, she definitely could see why it was needed. “Ondrej, take point on the trail once we hit deeper snow. We’ll switch off as needed. Falka, you stay in the middle, let us do the trailbreaking.”

Ciri bit back an instinctive protest. Pride made her want to insist upon pulling her own weight. However, she knew Frederic was being practical as well as protective--the witcher portion of their little group was much better equipped to wade through snow drifts than she was, and there was no reason to risk injuring her leg again by pushing harder than necessary. “All right,” she said instead, burying her pride.

They headed out without fanfare, their leaving acknowledged only by a nod from the sentry at the main gate. Once beyond the shelter of stone walls, the cold truly made itself felt, wind biting at exposed flesh, turning fingertips and toes cold and numb. Ciri snugged her hood tighter around her head, pulling up her scarf as they headed down the well-packed trail.

It didn’t take long before they picked up a new kind of escort. A long wolf-howl echoed down the narrow valley; within another mile or so, the pack was close enough that Ciri could hear growls and the crackle of bodies through the underbrush.

The presence of wolves didn’t surprise her--the Blue Mountains had always been home to them. Taken singly, northern wolves weren’t quite as intimidating as their white cousins on Skellige, who tended to be both larger and more aggressive. But the sheer size of this particular pack was startling; once they hit a flatter section of the valley, she spotted twenty or more wolves coursing along the timberline. Watching them; waiting for a moment of weakness.

The witchers had to be more than aware of the wolves’ approach, but nobody moved to unsheathe a blade or string a bow. “They’ll keep their distance,” Frederic said, noticing her distraction. “The packs near the keep have learned to be wary of witchers. We’d only need to worry if we had stragglers or wounded. Now those-” He gestured upwards at the sky, towards faint flying dots, “-will be more of a nuisance, once we’re close enough.” At first glance, Ciri had assumed they were birds, but as she looked closer, she realized what they really were: harpies.

“Once we start climbing again, we’ll have harpies harassing us any time we leave the tree cover,” Simon added with an annoyed grimace. “And nekkers and trolls the rest of the time. Keeps things interesting, that’s for sure.”

“Heard from Tjold that there’d been reports of a roc nesting on the far side of the pass,” Izak put in. “He hadn’t seen it himself, but he might have just been unlucky.”

“Or lucky. A roc is nothing to mess with. Not even sure how you’d saw off the head of something that size anyway,” Marrok remarked. The group’s pace never slackened, spiked boot soles crunching into ice and packed snow, even as the witchers traded stories and gossip. Ciri could tell they were slowing their pace in deference to her, but not by much. After an hour, they were already across the valley floor and following the well-worn trail upwards once more. Both the pace and the footing had become challenging enough that Ciri was forced to devote a good chunk of her concentration to keeping up, relying on the others to warn her of potential dangers.

They had just finished scrambling up a sharp switchback covered in loose powder, when Vesemir’s amulet vibrated in warning against her hip. In the same instant, Marrok barked, “Watch out!”

The nekkers came from above, dropping down on the party from the rocky hillside. Drawing his silver blade and anointing it with oil in a quicksilver flash of motion, Frederic disemboweled the first nekker to reach them with a short, vicious thrust. Ondrej moved to cover his flank, throwing Aard at the massed monsters, flinging them against the rocks and sending two screeching over the edge of the cliff.

Zirael was in her hand between one moment and the next, blade at the ready. Unfortunately for their little party, the nekkers had chosen their ambush well. The section of the trail they were on was narrow, the footing treacherous. There wasn’t enough room to swing multiple swords, not without hitting each other, and the range was too close for bows. Ciri managed to land an awkward slice on a nekker that had gotten past Ondrej’s guard. Unfortunately, the wound did little but draw the grotesque creature’s attention; it leaped for her, and Ciri hastily interposed her blade in the way, barring those snapping teeth from her throat. Setting her back against a boulder, she kicked the thing off, and before it could recover, Simon had blasted it off the edge of the trail with a fiery Igni.

“Form up!” Simon ordered, all trace of easy banter gone. He, Marrok and Izak had pulled knives and javelins, making a bristling perimeter of blades above and to the rear. It was a familiar tactic, one Ciri had seen the Imperial Guard use more than once, although never applied to monster hunting. There had been no need--by her time, there were no monsters left that hunted in packs large enough to require it. Not in civilized lands, at least.

Here and now, however, it was clear that such tactics were more than necessary, and that these nekkers considered their little group as nothing more than prey. Gibbering and screeching in rage, they launched themselves from the rocks above. There were at least thirty in the pack, many larger and stronger than any nekker Ciri had ever seen. Their twisted limbs were ropey with layered muscle, teeth worn--or filed--into jagged points, wrinkled, hairless skin adorned with strange painted patterns that made it almost impossible to distinguish one creature from the next.

Unfazed by the size of the ambush, the witchers waded into the fight, maneuvering as best they could in the tight confines of the trail. Simon and the others harried the nekkers, keeping them at bay with javelins and signs, while Frederic and Ondrej took point, silver swords flashing as they brutally cut down their gibbering, clawing opponents. With no javelin to hand, Ciri set herself to covering their backs, slicing apart any wounded nekkers who made it past the vanguard. There were surprisingly few--despite the size of the pack, Frederic and Ondrej were efficient in their butchery, obviously familiar with both the terrain and the creatures’ tactics. Black blood flew, painting the snow in stark patterns. One by one, the nekkers were cut down, the party of witchers advancing inexorably upward the trail. Within minutes the ambush had been broken, even if the nekkers lacked the wit to realize it.

It didn’t take long for the witchers to remedy that. Frederic charged, spitting the largest straggler on his silver sword and flinging the squalling, dying monster to one side in an impressive display of strength. Ondrej delivered the coup de grace, a spiked boot slamming down to crush the nekker’s skull.

With only two nekkers left alive, that proved to be the breaking point--the survivors broke and ran, disappearing into the rocks with inhuman speed. Ondrej growled, spitting on the ground in their direction. Frederic merely shook his head, sighed, and turned back to retrieve his abandoned pack. None of the witchers seemed wounded, or even particularly perturbed by the ambush. Ciri wasn’t surprised, exactly; Great Sun knew she had seen Geralt and the others fight larger monsters. However, the brutally efficient way Frederic and the others had handled the attack was … impressive.

Afterwards, it didn’t take long to get their party sorted and back into marching order. The close-quarters nature of the fight meant that there weren’t many arrows to retrieve. Dealing with the corpses of the nekkers took the longest; unable to cast signs, Ciri was stuck on corpse-hauling duty, dragging nekker bits to the edge of the ridgeline where they could safely be doused with oil and set alight with a judicious application of Igni.

“Bleah.  And here I thought they smelled bad when they were alive,” Ciri commented, tossing another dismembered leg onto the pile, gagging as she caught a faceful of foul-smelling smoke. Burned nekker smelled very little like roasting meat; instead the smoke carried a stomach-churning miasma of fouled blood and decay, the smell of fungus and manure mixed together and left to rot. “Do you have to do this kind of clean up every time?” She didn’t remember Geralt or Vesemir ever taking the time to tidy up like this.

Izak grunted, kicking a hacked-apart corpse further into the blazing pile. “Not always. It’s a good idea to do it for big ambushes on main trails. Otherwise the carcasses attract scavengers. Causes more trouble for the next people to come along.”

“Ogroids, necrophages and the like--dead meat is as good as living to them, and they’ll eat their own, if there’s nothing better on offer,” Frederic said, keeping his eyes on the sky and the treeline, even as he answered her question. “If you’re very unlucky, sometimes something even bigger comes along to chew on them. We learned the hard way that leaving bodies littered along the trade routes just invites trouble. Better to burn them or pitch them off the side of the mountain, if you can. The next witcher to come that way will thank you for it.”

Ciri nodded in understanding. “That makes sense,” she said slowly. “Thomas never mentioned that, but then, we never tackled more than one or two monsters at a time when we were together.” Which was a lie, but hopefully a believable one. Or at least, more believable than the truth.

“That’s the last of ‘em,” Simon interrupted, scrubbing snow over ichor-smeared gloves with an expression of distaste. “And I don’t know about you, but my nuts are likely to freeze off if we don’t get moving.”

Frederic snorted. “Fair enough. I’m tired of smelling nekker stink myself. Marrok, you and Ondrej take point.”

The next few hours were blessedly free of ambushes; even the harpies seemed to be keeping their distance. The snow got progressively deeper, and the trail narrowed, until finally the snow had piled deep enough to force them to swap ice-spikes for snowshoes.

Unfortunately, the deep snow also apparently made them a target for mountain trolls: three of them. It didn’t take witcher senses to spot the trolls coming out of the trees, bellowing in challenge. There was no way to avoid them either; the only way around meant both abandoning the trail and giving the monsters the chance to attack them from behind. Izak spat in disgust.

“Knew we weren’t getting over the pass without dealing with these whoresons,” he growled, unsheathing his silver sword.

The rest of their party followed suit, even as the trolls charged, plowing through the snow with frightening speed. Within moments Ciri found herself in the midst of yet another pitched battle, doing her best to remember _not_ to use her power as she sliced and dodged heavy fists. Every impact of Zirael against the trolls’ rocky hides reverberated up her arms, and she tried not to think too hard about what each hit was doing to the edge. Still, the elvish blade struck true, carving deep rents into the trolls’ flesh and keeping the lumbering creatures at bay, even if Ciri was hampered both by snowshoes and the necessity of concealing her abilities.

Standing toe-to-toe with a troll in a fight was folly, as any witcher well knew. Simon and the others had split up in unspoken accord, circling the trolls like the wolfpack their school was named after. One witcher kept their distance, throwing Signs or bombs whenever they spotted an opportunity. The others dived in and out, never getting too close, dodging thrown boulders and the trolls’ lumbering swings, slicing at hamstrings and other soft spots on each pass. It was a brutal, bloody fight of attrition, and Ciri had lost track of how long she had been fighting when Simon called out, “‘Ware the ice!”

One troll was already down, the other two bleeding from a multitude of wounds. Frederic and Marrok instantly leaped backwards; Ciri glanced over at Simon, confused--then beat her own hasty retreat as soon as she saw the sphere he held at the ready, wisps of magical frost already curling around the outer shell. Barely waiting before they were clear, Simon threw his bomb with deadly accuracy. The bomb hit between the two surviving trolls, and a blast of absolute cold exploded outward from the primed core, freezing solid everything within range. The magical explosion had been close enough to coat the tips of Ciri’s furs with frost, and Marrok cursed as he shook one hand, the frost-blued tips of his fingers already healing, skin turning back to its normal brown with supernatural speed.

The trolls, caught at the epicenter of the blast, weren’t as lucky. Their rocky hides had frozen solid, the magical cold penetrating down to muscle and bone. That alone would have killed a human, but trolls were made of tougher stuff. All the bomb had done was buy them time.

Marrok glanced at Ciri, who nodded. They darted in, each taking a troll. The creatures’ frozen hides were already creaking, frost falling off the trolls’ rocky backs as they tried to break free. Ciri didn’t give them the chance. Remembering Vesemir’s tutelage, she lunged, thrusting Zirael deep beneath one upraised arm, the blade slicing through the thinner hide, deep into the massive chest. Trolls had their hearts deeper within the chest cavity than humans or elves--but those organs were still just as vulnerable, once you got past the tough hide. Her aim was true; the troll swung blindly at her, blood frothing at its jaws as it roared in agony, breaking free of its icy imprisonment. It swung another heavy fist at Ciri, clumsy and slow--she ducked beneath it easily. Then the troll collapsed face-first into the snow, dead within moments.

Marrok’s target was just as dead, with throat and a good chunk of its chest carved open. Blood had splashed liberally over snow and witcher alike--a messy kill, but an effective one. Ciri sagged a bit in relief, wiping away sweat from her eyes before it could freeze on her eyelashes.

“Good kill,” Marrok said, nodding at the dead troll in front of her, even as he wiped troll blood and ichor from his blade. Ciri followed his example, fishing out a cloth from her own pack.

“Thanks. It’s been awhile since I tackled a troll,” she admitted. “Simon’s bomb was well timed.” It also had been a long time since she had pushed herself this hard, and for this long, at least in the physical sense. The last time she had done so … had been their final battle against Eredin, and Calanthir, and the Wild Hunt. Fighting while half-frozen, running from one skirmish to the next, the icy air tearing at her throat with each panted breath …. It wasn’t a memory she relished. Thankfully, this fight was only superficially similar, with neither the desperation nor the gut-deep fear of that one.

“Nothing better for trolls,” Simon said in satisfaction, slogging his way through the churned-up snow. “None of the other bombs will get through their hide, but a northern wind will slow them down to get some good hits in.”

“I must admit, I hadn’t realized how challenging the trip to Tabrzeg would be,” Ciri confessed. “Are we to expect more of this?”

There was a brief pause after her question, Simon and the others glancing uncertainly at each other. “There are fewer monsters at the top of the pass; there’s not enough prey up here for them to linger this time of year,” Frederic finally said, sheathing his silver blade and picking up his dropped pack. “But we’ll likely be fending off at least a few more ambushes before we get there.” There was nothing in the answer itself that was out of the ordinary, but instincts born of too many years of cutthroat imperial politics sent a frisson of alarm down Ciri’s spine. She had misstepped somehow--given something away. Fuck.

Still, there was little she could do about it now. “Then I guess we’d better get going,” Ciri said in reply, sheathing her sword and following Frederic’s example, shrugging her pack back over her shoulders.

Frederic nodded. “We’ve a few hours of daylight left, and we should make the most of it. If we’re lucky, we’ll be able to make camp on the leeward side of the pass by nightfall. Let’s move.”

 

*****

Four hours and three monster ambushes--including the promised harpies--later, they reached the promised campsite. The sun was already almost beneath the horizon, reddish light casting long-fingered tree shadows and firing the snow-covered slopes of the mountains around them into molten gold. It was a gorgeous sight, and Ciri breathed in deeply, feeling her worries drop away.

The site was obviously a regular stop on the trail. It was set up next to an outcropping that served as a natural windbreak, and there were stones piled up to make a firepit, as well as kindling stacked under a makeshift lean-to nearby. They had to shovel snow away from both, but with six pairs of hands available that particular chore was quickly done. A fire was quickly established, as was a watch rotation. All familiar tasks, and Ciri did her best to help, breaking down firewood into kindling and taking her turn at digging out snow-hollows for the tents.

A brace of rabbits, brought down on their way up the mountain, was efficiently butchered and spitted. Given the size of their party, the meat wouldn’t last long, but at least it would add a welcome bit of flavor to the porridge pot. Bedrolls were shoved together, three to a tent, privacy cast aside in favor of conserving heat. By the time they were all settled in, huddled close to the fire and out of the wind, Ciri could almost believe she was on the road once more. Only this time there was no Wild Hunt, no mages or other pursuit behind--just the Path ahead, and all the time in the world to wander it.

Except she’d never had such company in her wanderings. It was … oddly comforting, to sit among witchers as they bickered about chores, honed their blades, and swapped bits of stories and song. It was a comraderie that she’d never expected to find, not as an empress, and likely all too rare on the Path, as well, given how rarely witchers travelled together. No wonder Simon and the others had leaped at the chance to go.

 

****

 

Dawn as always, came early, the sun breaking slowly over the mountains. Frederic rousted them earlier still, immune to grousing and dark looks as they shivered and broke camp in the predawn chill. Unlike in Kaer Morhen, no one had offered--or even hinted--at warming themselves with any recreational activities the night before. Ciri wasn’t sure if that was due to Frederic’s presence or simply due to the logistics involved in such tight quarters. Either way, she found herself both relieved and oddly disappointed.

They broke their fast without rekindling the fire, gnawing on dried meat and waybread, and were on their way before color had even begun to touch the sky. Going downhill was easier than going up, but also more treacherous in terms of footing. Once again Ciri found herself envying the witchers around her; navigating a mountain trail in the grey light was much easier when one had both night vision and supernatural reflexes. Still, bitching about it was unlikely to get them to Tabrzeg any faster. Instead Ciri focused on her footing, ignoring the dull ache of her recently-healed leg and doing her best not to slow their progress.

There were more harpies on this side of the pass, as it turned out. Which wasn’t really a surprise, and as she cut her way through yet _another_ ambush, Ciri was beginning to understand the witchers’ casual attitude towards the constant monster attacks. After a certain point, harpies and nekkers stopped being scary and just got _annoying_. Bringing pack-trains of supplies over the pass in the summer must be an exercise in vigilance--and patience--for both witchers and normal folk alike, if this kind of constant harassment by the local monsters was normal.

A few hours later, and they had descended well into the treeline, crossing a rare bit of open ground. An old landslide had taken out most of the surrounding trees, leaving a broad swathe of tumbled boulders and shrubby vegetation behind. Normally Ciri would have welcomed the extra visibility. Unfortunately, the break in the trees revealed not just another pack of nekkers, but a griffin as well--who spotted _them_ at the same time.

“Mother-buggering-!” Ciri sliced open the belly of a lunging nekker, kicking him down the hillside as the creature continued to scrabble at her legs. “--what does it take for you fuckers to stay dead?”

The question, rhetorical as it was, didn’t need an answer. Which was just as well, since Frederic and most of the others were preoccupied with the griffin, who was old and canny and not inclined to go down without a fight. But Ciri’s shoulders were creaking, her leg ached, and her patience was eroding with each new gibbering, misshapen foe. It was hard to resist the temptation to use her power--a couple of small jumps in space to outflank her foes, and this little ambush would be over in moments, nekkers and griffin alike dead before they hit the ground. However, there was no way such magic would go unnoticed, and then Ciri would be facing a great many questions with no good answers.

Snarling, she beheaded another nekker with a backhanded swing, using her momentum to pivot and slice downward, carving deep into the throat, arm and chest of a third before the foul thing could sink blackened teeth into her shoulder. A quick sidestep ensured that nekker claws tore only through armor and not through flesh, but now there was a boulder at her back and a swarm of nekkers on all sides. Snarling, Ciri launched forward with a vicious thrust, gutting an already-wounded nekker and flinging it to one side. A one-shouldered roll got her out from under the claws of the rest, and she came up, Zirael already cutting through the air--

\--when a rattling roar shook the hillside, vibrating against the rocks. The sheer power behind the sound was incredible; monsters and embattled witchers alike staggered under the onslaught, deafened. Those with hands free had them clamped over their ears, but it didn’t seem to help much; Ciri could _feel_ the bass notes of that roar rattling through her bones. She swung towards the source of the noise … and saw scarlet wings fill the sky, as a dragon rose above the ridge.

This was no overgrown wyvern or forktail. Far larger than either, with scarlet metallic scales that gleamed in the light, the dragon was massive, each ponderous beat of wings somehow keeping it aloft. Wisps of smoke plumed from its jaws as the great horned head tilted, surveying the terrain below.

Nekkers broke and ran in all directions, tumbling over boulders in their haste, fleeing like hares before the hawk. The griffin, already wounded and bleeding from its battle, also tried to flee, feathered wings beating frantically as it launched itself into the air. But the dragon was already in motion. Witchers hit the ground or rolled out of the way as the dragon dove, swords and javelins held at the ready. The dragon snatched the griffin out of the sky with a single snap of its jaws, and the backwash from those great wings sent the unprepared tumbling as it passed overhead, tossing bits of brush and pebbles into the air.

Then it and its prey were gone, climbing with unnatural speed until it was little more than a rapidly dwindling black dot against the sky, heading deeper into the mountains.

Marrok cursed vilely as he climbed to his feet. “That was _not_ a ploughing roc! Frederic, did you know we had a mother-buggering _dragon_ this close to Kaer Morhen?”

Frederic scrubbed a hand roughly over his face, his expression grim. “No. And if it’s hunting this close to the pass, we’re going to need to put together a hunting party before caravan season, I’m thinking.”

Ciri bit back her instinctive protest, even as Simon and the others rejoined them, putting away weapons. In her era, true dragons were beyond rare. Hunted by men for both their treasure and for rare spell components, they were almost extinct within the lands held by the Empire. Even in the wildlands, it was almost impossible to find one of the great reptiles.

But in this era, it seemed dragons were--if not common--still a very real threat to human settlements. After coming face to face with one, Ciri could see why. Even the most seasoned veteran soldier would soil himself and run in the face of such a monster. This was the first time Ciri had seen Frederic and his fellow witchers taken by surprise, and it was obvious the dragon’s appearance had them more than a little rattled.

Still …. “Is it likely to stay this close to the pass?” Ciri asked, sheathing Zirael with shaking hands. There was no point in concealing her fear from Simon and the others; not when they could no doubt still hear her heartbeat rabbiting away in her chest. “A wyvern’s territory can span miles--how large would a dragon’s territory be? Is tracking one even possible?”

“Finding the lair would be difficult, I’ll grant you,” Simon admitted, looking thoughtful. “Dragons hide their dens--and their hoards--well. But as I recall, witchers have managed to bait them out in the past. Frederic?”

“No one from the School of the Wolf--not recently, at least,” Frederic grumbled, joining the others in recovering scattered supplies and pulling arrows from nekker carcasses. “I heard tell of a master witcher from Manticore that did so, though his was an acid-spitter. The Bear likes to boast of a few dragonslayers in their ranks as well, but I’ve not heard of too many dragons setting up in Skellige. More likely they just killed an overgrown slyzard, collected the coin and let the bards lie about it.” He grimaced at a rent in his armor, then shrugged his pack back into place, double-checking the straps of his baldric. “We’ll have to consult with Dean and the others on our return, see what we have in the archives.”

“Finding bait large enough, now that would be the difficulty,” Ondrej put in. “Dragon’s not going to take notice of a single goat. Cow, maybe?” The discussion continued as nekker carcasses were torched and arrows were collected. Even as they resumed their journey down the mountain, Ondrej and the others continued the debate, arguing about the weapons and tactics that would fare best against a greater dragon. Would draconid oils would even have an effect, or was a witcher better served by poison and as many dimeritium bombs he could afford to acquire? The debate lasted until they reached the valley floor, swapped snowshoes for spikes once more, and continued on almost to the gates of Tabrzeg.

Ciri wasn’t sure what she had expected. A tiny mountain hamlet, perhaps, like she had seen in Skellige. Or perhaps something more akin to the trade-towns she had travelled through in Temeria. Tabrzeg was neither; in truth, it reminded her more of a well-fortified military encampment than a village.

The small collection of buildings was ringed by not just one, but two palisades made of sharpened tree-trunks; a low outer wall surmounted by a higher, and far more formidable, inner wall. There was one gate, a narrow portal barely big enough for a burdened cart, flanked by heavy doors banded by iron. Two sentries stood watch at each side of the gate, armed with bow and halberd. Torches already burned behind them, even though evening had just started to stretch long-fingered shadows over the snow. Even more startling were the wards hung upon those gates, made of wrought iron and pale ash, and darker sigils painted at intervals along the walls.

Even this close to Kaer Morhen, it appeared that the denizens of Tabrzeg feared monsters far more than they did other men. Were these kinds of defenses normal for this era? Or were they only necessary due to Tabrzeg’s location, deep in the Blue Mountains and far from civilization?

Tthe faces of the sentries were remarkably free of the disdain Ciri had grown used to seeing when she travelled with Geralt or one of the others. Instead, once they had approached close enough to identify, the sentries at the gate had visibly relaxed. They stopped at the gate, and the elder of the two men nodded at them with a kind of wary respect. “Good eve to ye, Master Frederic. Didn’t think we’d be seeing any witchers ‘til later in the season.” He looked over the rest of the party, eyebrows lifting in surprise as he spotted Ciri. “No new caravans in, I’m afraid.”

“Good to see you as well, Geoff,” Frederic replied easily. “No need to worry. There’s no trouble heading your way, and Kaer Morhen isn’t as hard up for supplies or coin as all that. We’re just here to warm our bones for a spell, maybe spend some coin on drink and good company.”

“Good news indeed,” Geoff said, and the younger sentry visibly relaxed even further. “I won’t keep you from yer pleasure, then. Enter and be welcome.”

The buildings inside the palisade were familiar, at least; heavy-timbered and tall-peaked, dug in deep to preserve warmth and shed the snow. The aromas of human habitation lay heavy in the air, the scent of livestock and manure, woodsmoke and roasting meat. Ciri glanced sidelong at the nearest witcher as Frederic led them towards one building in particular, boots crunching over packed-down earth and snow. “That was a warmer welcome than I had expected,” she said quietly.

“Without Kaer Morhen, few caravans would stop this far north. Tabrzeg earns a lot of coin off that, and from witchers looking to resupply before they head back out on the Path,” Marrok said, low-voiced, and gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Folk can be surprisingly welcoming when coin’s involved.”

“The Wolf School also keeps the area pretty clear of the bigger monsters,” Simon added. “Tabrzeg doesn’t have to wait and hope a witcher comes through, like most places do. That tends to make the locals pretty happy to see us.”

“Though they’d be a lot less happy to see us if they had to pay for all the monsters we kill, I’d wager,” Marrok added cynically.

Simon shrugged. “Perhaps. That doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy it.”

“True enough,” Ciri said quietly. What more was there to say? The acceptance of witchers had always been dependent upon their usefulness to the people around them. At least in this era, it seemed that witchers were still needed badly enough to garner a certain amount of grudging respect.

They reached their destination: a sturdy building with a few half-shuttered windows spilling light and warmth into the cold. A weatherbeaten sign hung next to the door that bore only a crudely carved picture of goose--or perhaps it was a particularly misshapen swan?--that had once been painted white. There was no name attached to the image; Ciri assumed the locals didn’t need one to identify the local inn. They pushed through the door, stomping off the snow, and Ciri’s stomach growled at the welcome scent of beer and roasted meat. There were only a few occupants in the main room. Not many chose to travel in the middle of winter, and few villagers could afford to be idle before the evening meal. This far north, days were short, the nights cold, and candles expensive--best to get one’s work done before the sun set.

The innkeep was a graying woman, stout and sturdy, with a no-nonsense air about her. “Good eve, masters,” she said in greeting, without any of the effusive courtesies that Ciri had been forced to grow accustomed to in the Empire. It was … refreshing. “And … lady?” the innkeep added, eyeing her doubtfully. Witchers visiting Tabrzeg were a normal occurrence. Witchers arriving with strange women in tow, less so, it seemed. “What’ll be yer pleasure?”

“Food and ale, for starters,” Frederic said easily, shucking gloves and setting down his pack with an air of relief. “This is Falka--she’s wintering at Kaer Morhen. Falka, this is Bethel.” Ciri and the others followed his example, setting down packs and taking off layers of wool and ice-rimed furs. “We’ll also need rooms for a couple nights. Is that a boar I see on the spit?”

“It is,” Bethel confirmed proudly. “Hunting party brought it in a few days past. Settle in; I’ll carve you off a piece or three, and bread as well.”

They did as they were bid, taking over one of the long tables near the hearth. Ciri noticed that the few other inhabitants still kept a careful distance between themselves and the group of witchers. Which was hardly unexpected, and casting an eye over their well-armed little party, sword hilts glinting in the firelight and javelins set against walls, Ciri supposed she couldn’t blame them. No one wanted to borrow trouble, not with this many witchers in one place.

The first round arrived, and Simon hoisted his clay mug in a toast. “Your health, my brothers! May our Paths be long and littered with beautiful women!”


End file.
